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1767. 


WAY-MARKS 


LIFE  OF  A  WANDERER. 


THE   INCIDENTS   TAKEN   FROM   REAL    LIFE. 


u 
t 


BY    THE    AUTHOR    OF 

ROBERT  MORTON,  THE  DEW-DROP  OF  THE  SUNNt  SODTH,  ETC.  ETC. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

PUBLISHED  FOR  THE  AUTHOR  BY  CRISSY  &  MAKKLEY, 
GOLDSMITH'S  HALL,  LIBRARY  STREET. 


CKISSY  *  MAKKLET,  PRINTERS. 


7 


TO 
MY    BELOVED    AND    DEARLY    CHERISHED    FRIEND 

Bits.  a.  36. 


I     DEDICATE    THIS    LITTLE    VOLUME 
AS  A  SLIGHT  TOKEN  OF  ESTEEM, 

AND  TRUST  SHE  WILL   EVER   HOLD  IN   KIND    REMEMBRANCE,   ITS 

AUTHOR. 


2O510O2 


P  11  E  F  A  C  E  . 


A  FEW  years  ago  I  visited  some  friends  in  Georgia, 
and  there  gleaned  the  incidents  upon  which  I  based 
the  contents  of  this  little  volume.  If  I  have  some 
times  mingled  the  experiences  of  my  own  life  with 
the  Wanderings  of  the  fair  Marcia,  the  reader  will 
please  forgive  me,  and  admit  that  a  certain  degree 
of  fiction  must  be  allowed  in  names  of  persons  and 
places. 

Of  the  religious  tendency  of  my  work  I  would  only 
say,  to  read  it  will  be  to  convince  you  that  I  have 
written,  praying  as  I  wrote,  that  God's  Spirit  might 
descend  upon  me,  and  teach  me  how  to  benefit  my  fel 
low  creatures. 

Not  quite  two  years  have  elapsed  since,  left  in  des 
titute  circumstances,  with  two  small  children  entirely 


VI  PREFACE. 

dependent  upon  my  exertions  for  their  support  and 

*? 
education,  I  embarked  in  a  literary  career,  and  in  the 

fullness  of  a  grateful  heart  must  I  say,  that  God  has 
bounteously  strewn  my  way  with  blessings.  In  New 
York,  Boston  and  Philadelphia ;  in  the  noble  cities  of 
the  Far  West,  and  in  the  genial  cities  of  the  Sunny 
South,  troops  of  friends  have  surrounded  me;  and 
every  where  I  have  met  with  the  encouragement  and 
sympathy  which  have  made  my  sorrowful  lot  support 
able. 

I  think  I  should  acknowledge  that  the  first  element 
of  my  success  has  been  the  favor  and  kindness  I  have 
received  from  the  editors.  From  the  hurry  of  busi 
ness,  the  discussion  of  politics,  the  perusal  of  foreign 
intelligence,  they  have  come  to  see  me,  listened  to  my 
simple  story,  read  my  book,  and  announced  to  the 
public  my  design  in  such  glowing  terms,  that  the 
whole  public  heart  seemed  to  beat  with  sympathy,  and 
the  entire  number  of  the  rich  and  favored  would  come 
forward  with  words  of  encouragement  to  subscribe  for 
my  book.  I  can  never  hope  to  thank  them  sufficiently 
for  all  they  have  done,  but  I  feel  confident  God  will 
bless  and  reward  those  who  have  scattered  upon  the 
Wanderer's  way,  the  flowers  of  life  and  hope. 


PREFACE.  VU 

To  the  kindly  attention  of  the  noble-hearted  and 
the  good,  I  submit  this  little  volume,  feeling  that 
though  it  has  many  faults,  it  has  more  to  recommend 
it  than  any  thing  hitherto  laid  before  them  by  its 
grateful 

'     t  •• 
*  .  AUTHOR. 


LIFE  OF  A/WANDERER 


CHAPTER   I. 

I  received  a  letter,  turned  it  over  and  over,  read 
and  re-read  it,  and  said,  "  Dear  Mother,  he  has  sent 
for  me ;  I  am  going :  are  you  not  glad  ?" 

The  next  thing  was  to  get  ready.  I  had  many 
little  things  to  make  and  mend.  I  set  myself  heartily 
to  work,  for  I  remembered  that  the  doctor  had  said 
to  my  mother,  "  This  winter  in  a  southern  climate  is 
her  only  chance  of  life." 

Mother  packed  my  trunk.  She  took  care  I  should 
have  a  plentiful  supply  of  ginger-bread  for  my  carpet 
bag.  She  laid  in  one  corner  of  my  trunk,  a  bible, 
in  another,  some  flannel  vests.  She  then  locked  it  up, 
and  dropped  the  key  in  the  pocket  of  my  traveling 
dress  which  hung  over  the  back  of  a  chair. 

The  hour  of  departure  came  at  last.  *My  mother 
kissed  me,  and  bade  God  bless  me.  I  stooped  down 
2 


10  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

and  embraced  my  little  brother,  and  said  good-bye  to 
him,  whereupon  his  tears  burst  forth  and  he  clung  to 
me  tightly. 

"Dear,  dear  sister,"  said  he,  "you  will  not  go 
away  and  leave  me?" 

"  Only  for  a  little  while,  darling,"  was  my  reply. 

I  passed  my  hand  over  the  golden  curls  that  shaded 
his  infant  brow.  I  pressed  him  to  my  heart,  and 
kissed  his  rosy  lips.  My  traveling  companion  handed 
me  into  the  carriage ;  the  driver  cracked  his  whip, 
and  we  were  gone.  I  looked  back  at  the  dear  home 
of  my  childhood ;  my  mother  stood  waving  her  last 
adieu,  and  my  little  brother  was  weeping  bitterly.  I 
wept  too — can  you  wonder  ? 

Oh !  that  dear  little  brother  of  mine,  sweet  Benny ; 
how  often,  when  afar  from  the  home  of  affection,  shall 
I  recall  his  attachment  for  me,  his  only  sister.  Shall 
I  not  remember,  too,  his  gentle  voice  pleading  with 
me  not  to  leave  him  ?  Oh  yes,  many  times. 

Did  you  ever  travel  by  the  mail  route,  from  New 
York  to  Georgia?  Oh,  you  did.  Well,  then,  I  need 
not  describe  to  you  its  fatiguing  and  monotonous  char 
acteristics.  I  will  only  tell  you  of  some  of  my  own 
experiences. 

My  traveling  companion  was  an  old  bachelor,  who 
if  not  positively  cross  and  ill-natured,  was,  to  say  the 
least  of  it,  very  stern.  He  made  me  sit  next  to  the 
open  window  to  keep  the  cold  off  from  him.  He  took 
up  two-thirds  of  the  seat,  saying  in  the  most  don't 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER.  11 

speak  to  me  kind  of  manner;  "if  I  incommode 
you  in  the  least,  Miss  Walton,  let  me  know."  Now, 
as  I  happened  to  be  gather  small,  and  very  timid,  I 
did  not  dare  to  complain,  but  squeezing  myself  into 
the  smallest  possible  compass,  assured  him  there  was 
plenty  of  room,  and  so  there  was  in  truth,  only  he 
kept  it  all  for  himself. 

I  peeped  out  from  under  my  bonnet,  and  inspected 
the  parties  who  sat  in  front  of  me.  A  gentleman  and 
lady  sat  in  the  next  seat.  They  had  turned  over  the- 
back  of  another  seat,  upon  which  they  deposited,  with 
an  air  of  perfect  non-chalance,  a  carpet-bag  and 
numerous  shawls;  conversing  together  at  the  same 
time,  with  great  indifference  to  an  old  lady,  who  re 
mained  standing  in  the  end  of  the  car,  unable  to  get 
a  seat,  till  the  conductor  forced  the  passengers  to  be 
civil. 

From  looking  at  surrounding  objects,  and  becoming 
wearied  of  their  sameness,  I  at  length  turned  my  at 
tention  inward  and  devoted  my  thoughts  to  myself. 
I  had  been  educated  in  such  a  manner  as  to  fit  me  for 
the  arduous  duties  of  teaching,  and  had  been  but 
three  weeks  emancipated  from  the  school  room.  I 
was  now  on  my  way  to  a  distant  place,  to  which  I  had 
been  called  in  the  capacity  of  governess  in  the  family 
of  a  rich  lady,  widow  of  a  southern  planter.  My 
spirit  yearned  for  the  home  I  was  leaving  behind  me, 
and  my  fond,  devoted  mother,  and  darling  brother, 
whose  winning  ways  had  engendered  in  my  heart  the 


12  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

• 

tenderest  affection.  I  knew  that  I  was  setting  out  in 
the  great  world  alone,  and  as  a  woman,  I  felt  all  my 
own  weakness  of  mind  and  body.  I  had  studied  to 
make  myself  competent  to  teach  others,  until  my 
health  had  been  seriously  undermined,  and  a  settled 
cough  fastened  itself  upon  me,  and  stole  the  roses 
from  my  cheeks.  My  anxious  mother  called  in  the 
doctor,  and  he  bade  her  send  me  instantly  to  the 
South. 

But  here  arose  a  great  difficulty — how  was  this  to 
be  accomplished  ?  My  mother  was  a  poor  widow ;  her 
income  was  barely  sufficient  for  our  maintenance,  and 
she  was  obliged  to  eke  it  out  by  constant  and  diligent 
application  to  her  needle.  Indeed,  she  had  denied 
herself  many  comforts  in  order  to  have  me  receive  the 
benefits  of  a  first  rate  education. 

One  morning  as  she  glanced  over  the  paper,  an  ex 
pression  of  delight  escaped  her.  Ah,  what  an  inesti 
mable  blessing  is  that  same  morning  paper.  In  yonder 
spacious  mansion  there  is  joy  and  gladness.  A  son 
has  been  expected  home  from  sea.  There  have  been 
mighty  storms  agitating  the  surface  of  the  great  deep ; 
fear  and  terror  have  filled  the  hearts  of  father,  mother, 
brothers  and  sisters.  But  now  dawns  a  glorious  morn 
ing  ;  the  ship  has  arrived  at  quarantine ;  the  news  is 
telegraphed,  and  with  joy-beaming  eyes  the  delighted 
family  read  the  morning  paper. 

Again,  in  the  home  of  poverty,  a  lonely  widow  sits, 
not  moodily,  not  sorrow-stricken,  but  gay,  bright,  and 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER.  13 

happy.  She  has  a  son,  an  only  son.  He  was  walk 
ing  the  day  before  on  the  bank  of  the  river.  A  little 
boy  was  playing  there.  He  fell  in  the  deep,  dark 
water.  Not  one  of  all  the  crowd  stept  forth  to  save 
him  but  her  own  noble  boy.  He  threw  off  his  jacket, 
plunged  beneath  the  tide,  and  rising  again  to  the  sur 
face  with  his  helpless  burden,  swam  proudly  to  the 
shore.  He  waited  for  no  thanks;  he  desired  none. 
They  looked  for  him,  but  he  was  gone.  The  rich 
father  was  determined  to  reward  him ;  he  wrote  a  full 
account  of  the  accident,  and  spoke  in  glowing  terms 
of  the  brave  boy  who  had  periled  his  life  to  save  that 
of  his  child.  Oh,  sweet  to  that  fond  mother's  heart 
was  the  eulogium  contained  in  the  morning's  paper. 
And  the  paper  of  this  morning,  to  which  I  refer,  con 
tained  that  which  made  my  heart  beat  high  with 
hope.  "Listen,  Marcia,"  said  my  mother,  "Hear 
what  a  kind  Providence  throws  in  our  way, — 
'  Wanted,  a  young  lady  well  versed  in  all  the  branches 
of  a  sound  English  education,  and  au  fait  in  all  its 
graces  and  accomplishments,  to  teach  a  family  of  four 
children.  A  handsome  salary  will  be  paid,  and  also 
all  traveling  expenses  from  any  part  of  the  United 
States.  The  situation  is  in  Georgia,  twelve  miles 
from  the  city  of  D.  Address  a  note  to  J.  H.  Wood- 
ville,  Irving  House,  New  York.'" 

As  my  mother  finished  reading  this  advertisement, 
I  sat  back  in  my  chair,  so  very  happy  that  I  could 
not  speak.     I  did  not  wait  to  be  told  twice  to  answer 
2* 


14  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

it ;  I  opened  my  desk,  and  wrote  a  list  of  my  accom 
plishments.  I  spoke  very  timidly  of  my  ill  health, 
but  warmly  declared  my  desire  to  please,  and  the 
hope  that  amongst  the  numerous  replies  the  adver 
tisement  would  call  forth,  mine  might  meet  with  a 
favorable  reception.  I  mentioned  my  references, 
and  having  sent  my  letter,  returned  to  my  sewing, 
believing  I  should  never  hear  from  it  again.  A  week 
passed  away,  and  no  word  of  intelligence  reached  me 
relative  to  the  matter.  One  day  we  sat  as  usual 
busily  employed  in  needle  work ;  my  cough  had  been 
very  troublesome  all  day,  and  I  felt  unusually  weak 
and  dispirited.  I  have  no  doubt  I  was  paler  than 
common,  for  I  saw  my  mother's  gentle  eyes  resting 
upon  me  with  a  look  of  anxious  solicitude.  The  bell 
rang,  and  in  a  few  moments  a  stranger  was  ushered 
in,  who  handed  a  card  to  my  mother,  and  bowing 
politely,  took  a  seat,  and  eyed  me  closely  from  beneath 
his  heavy  lashes. 

The  stranger  was  a  tall,  large  man,  about  sixty 
years  old.  His  hair  was  black,  and  slightly  inter 
mingled  with  gray.  His  eyes  were  black,  large,  and 
piercing,  and  seemed  to  have  lost  none  of  the  fire  of 
early  youth.  His  wide  mouth  was  filled  with  hand 
some  teeth,  and  there  was  something  in  the  expres 
sion  of  this  feature  that  betrayed  to  the  eye  of  the 
beholder  a  hardness  of  feeling  which  was  in  reality 
assumed,  and  not  the  native  emotion  of  the  heart. 
It  was  only  when  interested  in  conversation  you 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER. 

would  have  pronounced  him  handsome.  His  face  was 
sunburnt  and  swarthy;  and  before  my  mother  an 
nounced  the  fact,  I  was  aware  that  Mr.  Woodville, 
the  Georgian,  stood  before  me. 

A  mutual  introduction  now  took  place,  to  which  I 
replied  by  a  joyous  inclination  of  the  head,  for  hope 
was  bright  within  me.  The  stranger  bowed  politely 
as  before.  He  asked  me  many  questions,  to  which  I 
replied  modestly  enough,  for  I  was  abashed  in  the 
presence  of  the  stern  Georgian,  who  I  looked  upon,  in 
the  childishness  of  my  heart,  as  the  arbiter  of  my 
fate.  At  length  he  seemed  to  have  asked  me  all  he 
wished,  and  he  leaned  down  over  his  cane,  the  golden 
head  of  which  appeared  to  be  to  him  a  source  of 
infinite  delight.  Bfe  grumbled  something  which  I 
did  not  understand. 

"  Sir?"  said  my  mother. 

"It  is  a  pity,"  he  replied,  "that  the  girl  is  so 
pretty." 

"Pretty!"  exclaimed  my  mother,  "I  am  sure  I 
never  thought  so." 

Of  course,  my  cheeks  were  rosy  enough,  now. 

"Well,"  continued  Mr.  Woodville,  "it  cannot  be 
helped  now.  I  will  think  about  it.  I  shall  send  you 
an  answer  to-morrow." 

The  next  day,  sure  enough,  the  answer  came.  It 
was  the  letter  I  received  at  the  commencement  of 
this  chapter.  All  these  things  passed  in  review 
before  me.  I  came  once  more  to  the  final  parting ; 


16  WAY-MARKS   IN  THE 

my  mother's  farewell  kiss;  my  brother's  tears;  all 
the  dear  associations  of  childhood  thus  suddenly  sun 
dered,  and  I  could  bear  it  no  longer,  but  forgetting 
where  I  was,  the  stern  Mr.  Woodville — every  thing, 
in  fact,  but  my  own  loneliness  and  desolation — I 
broke  down  then  and  there,  and  buried  my  face  in 
my  handkerchief. 

"  How  now,  what's  all  this?"  said  a  stern  voice  in 
my  ear.  I  tried  to  answer,  but  the  choking  sobs 
prevented  me.  "  Come,  come,  this  will  never  do," 
said  Mr.  Woodville.  "It  is  all  nonsense,  perfect 
nonsense — pooh,  pooh." 

Mr.  Woodville  coughed.  I  cried  harder  than  ever, 
though  heartily  ashamed  of  myself. 

"  Well,  well,  this  is  too  bad.  Come,  Miss,  this  is 
very  silly — excessively  silly." 

I  felt  convinced  of  the  truth  of  this,  but  still  I 
cried  on.  Mr.  Woodville  continued — 

"  I  can't  bear  to  see  a  woman  cry.  If  you  don't 
stop,  I'll  go  where  I  can't  see  you — indeed  I  will. 
I'll  go  in  the  forward  car — I'll  leave  you  by  yourself; 
if  I  was  a  Sultan,  I'd  order  the  sack  for  every  woman 
that  cried  in  my  dominions." 

I  made  a  desperate  effort  to  be  calm,  and  indeed 
the  expression  of  Mr.  Woodville's  face,  at  any  other 
time,  would  have  excited  a  fit  of  uncontrollable  merri 
ment.  He  tried  so  hard  to  look  mad  and  stern,  and 
all  the  time  I  could  see  'he  was  just  as  sorry  as  I  was. 

"Ah,"  said  I,  "  it  is  so  hard  to  leave  mother,  and 


LIFE   OP   A   WANDERER.  17 

dear  little  Benny;"  and  at  this  mention  of  the  cause 
of  my  sorrow,  I  again  lost  all  self-control,  and  burst 
forth  afresh.  Mr.  Woodville  said — 

"  Yes,  yes,  it's  hard,  I  suppose — but  then  you  are 
not  going  to  leave  them  for  ever,  you  know.  I  have 
no  doubt  you  feel  lonely  and  sad  at  the  idea  of 
leaving  them  for  the  first  time,  but  you  must  not 
expect  to  have  every  thing  just  as  you  wish  it ;  that 
is  impossible ;  and  I  doubt  if  it  would  be  a  blessing, 
even  if  permitted.  Learn  to  meet  the  decrees  of 
Providence  with  an  abiding  trust  that  He  will  temper 
the  wind  to  the  shorn  lamb.  Who  is  this  little 
Benny,  of  whom  you  speak?" 

"  He  is  my  only  darling  brother." 

"  What,  that  pretty,  little,  pale  child,  with  the  bright 
blue  eyes  and  golden  curls?" 

"  The  same,  the  very  same,"  I  replied. 

"  Then  I  don't  wonder  you  dislike  to  leave  him. 
He  is  certainly  one  of  the  sweetest  children  I  ever 
saw.  I  should  judge  him  to  be  uncommonly  smart 
too — is  he  not  ?" 

"  Ah,  that  he  is,  Sir,"  said  I,  completely  won 
over  by  his  praise  of  my  brother.  "  He  has  always 
been  very  delicate,  but  he  has  an  intellect  far  above 
his  years;  and  then  he  is  so  thoughtful,  so  full  of 
pity  for  any  body  who  is  in  distress.  Mr.  Staunton 
calls  him  a  complete  Paul  Dombey.  He  never  wants 
to  play  with  other  children,  but  always  joins  us  in 
our  conversations,  not  boldly,  and  like  a  froward, 


18  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

petted  child,  but  with  the  delicacy  and  good  taste  of 
older  years;  and  many  times 'he  asks  questions  which 
would  puzzle  the  wisest  heads  to  answer.  You  should 
hear  him  talk  of  heaven ;  it  has  often  seemed  to  me 
that  there  was  implanted  in  his  heart  undying  long 
ings  for  another  world,  as  if  he  thought  this  was  not 
his  home.  He  often  tells  mother,  when  he  is  sick, 
that  he  wants  to  die,  so  that  he  may  see  God  and  all 
his  angels;  but  he  always  adds,  'I  don't  want  to 
leave  you,  dear  mamma — I  don't  want  to  go  to  heaven 
without  you ;'  and  then  he  will  twine  his  arms  affec 
tionately  about  her  neck,  and  kiss  her." 

I  came  to  a  dead  stop,  for  I  perceived  that  I  had 
been  talking  to  a  stranger,  who  certainly  could  not- feel 
any  interest  in  the  subject,  dear  as  it  was  to  me;  and 
I  could  see,  too,  that  his  object  in  getting  me  to  talk 
was  to  make  me  forget  the  cause  of  my  tears,  and  I 
felt  half  vexed  to  think  he  had  succeeded:  but  the 
cars  had  arrived  at  the  depot  in  Tacony,  and  we 
went  aboard  the  steamboat,  and  were  told  that  dinner 
awaited  us  below. 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER.  19 


CHAPTER  II. 

"  Onward !  Hath  earth's  ceaseless  change 

Trampled  on  thy  heart? 
Faint  not,  for  that  restless  range 
Soon  will  heal  the  smart." 

Let  me  pause  awhile  at  this  period  of  my  life,  and 
reflect.  Ah!  how  little  of  sorrow,  of  the  world's 
bitter  experience,  knew  I  then.  The  virgin  page  of 
life  was  just  opened ;  as  yet  there  was  nothing  written 
upon  it  but  the  sweet  counsels  of  an  affectionate  and 
pious  mother.  I  knew  nothing  of  the  wickedness  in 
the  world  around  me.  By  nature  trusting  and  con 
fiding,  nothing  had  ever  occurred  to  make  me  feel 
suspicious  of  any  one.  Oh !  let  me,  like  the  immortal 
Dickens,  stand  aside  and  see  the  shadows  of  those 
days  go  by  me.  That  happy  childhood — that  well 
remembered  school-room  —  my  kind  and  faithful 
teacher — my  school-mates,  many  of  whom  were  dear 
to  me — my  only  sister,  who  laid  in  the  quiet  grave 
beside  my  father,  and  my  little  darling  brother,  who 
was  born  two  months  after  my  mother  was  a  widow. 
How  vividly  memory  brings  them  all  before  me — 
every  trivial  circumstance,  every  little  nothing  that 
makes  up  the  sum  of  human  existence.  Yes,  I  recall 
them  all,  and  a  halo  of  happiness  seems  to  surround 


20  WAY-MARKS    IN    THE 

them,  for  they  all  speak  of  the  home  I  have  left. 
There  is  no  bitterness  in  the  recollection,  and  if  I 
did  not  think  it  was  -wicked,  I  would  wish  in  my  heart 
I  had  died  then,  upon  the  commencement  of  that  jour 
ney,  before  I  had  learned  the  sad,  sad  lessons,  which 
have  embittered  my  life,  which  have  irrevocably 

doomed  me  to  an ,  but  I  will  not  anticipate. 

At  ten  o'clock,  P.  M.,  we  took  the  cars,  and  rode 
on  towards  Baltimore.  Every  one  seemed  fixing  for 
a  nap,  and  I  thought  I  could  do  no  better  than  follow 
the  example.  Most  unfortunately,  however,  sleep 
will  not  always  come  for  the  wooing,  but  like  a 
coquetish  girl,  draws  only  near  enough  to  you  to 
elude  your  grasp.  The  long  and  lonely  night  drew 
at  length  to  a  close,  and  we  changed  cars,  and  con 
tinued  our  journey,  passing  through  Washington, 
Richmond,  Petersburg,  Weldon,  and  arriving  at  Wil 
mington,  where  we  took  a  filthy  little  steamer,  (a  dis 
grace  to  the  company,)  for  Charleston.  I  know  of 
nothing  to  compare  to  these  boats,  save  the  immense 
packets  seen  daily  moving  along  the  numerous  canals 
which  intersect  our  country.  I  spent  a  night  on 
one  of  these  canal  boats,  which  I  shall  never  forget ; 
and  when  I  mention  the  date  to  be  the  sixth  of 
August,  I  doubt  not  many  of  my  friends  will  recall 
the  time.  In  a  little  box  of  a  place  called  the  Ladies' 
Cabin,  were  stowed  sixteen  unfortunate  ladies,  and 
six  children.  I  was  furnished  with  a  bed  on  the  supper 
table,  and  a  thin  curtain  was  all  that  divided  the  crown 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER.  21 

of  iny  head  from  that  of  a  gentleman  in  the  outer  cabin. 
If  I  threw  my  hand  over  my  head,  (a  habit  to  which 
I  am  addicted,  by  the  way,)  it  was  instantly  seized 
from  the  other  side,  and  a  violent  struggle  was  neces 
sary  for  the  rescue.  The  musquetoes  weighed  in  the 
neighborhood  of  a  quarter  of  a  pound  eateh,  and  the 
way  they  annoyed  us  was  a  caution  to  all'  invalids. 
We  had  a  merry  party  on  board,  however,  who  sang 
"Hail,  Columbia!"  and  "Lord  Lovel  rode  up  to. the 
Castle  gate;"  and  altogether  we  tried  to  make  the 
best  of  a  bad  bargain,  and  were  as  merry  as  the  cir 
cumstances  would  possibly  admit. 

But,  to  go  back  to  the  Charleston  steamer.  Safely 
seated  on  it,  Mr.  Woodville  asked  me  how  I  liked  it, 
so  far  ?  I  told  him  I  was  delighted  with  all  I  saw 
and  heard. 

"But  you  are  very  tired,  are  you  not?" 

"Not  much.  There  are  many  things  to  see,  and  I 
have  no  time  to  think  about  fatigue." 

"  In  two  days  more  we  shall  have  arrived  at  our 
place  of  destination.  You  will  not  know  how  wearied 
you  have  been  till  you  get  into  the  quiet  of  the 
country.  Now,  Miss  Walton,  permit  me  to  offer  you 
some  advice — will  you  not  ?" 

"  Certainly,  Sir.  I  shall  not  .only  take  it  in  kind 
ness,  but  I  shall  be  most  grateful  for  the  interest  you 
display." 

"  That's  right ;  never  refuse  to  take  advice  from 
those  who  are  older  and  wiser  than  yourself.     I  want 
3 


22  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

you  to  try  to  please  my  sister.     I  believe  you  can  do      * 
it.     She  has  her  little  odd  ways,  but  she  is  a  good 
woman  upon  the  main.     Her  heart  is  in  the  right 
place  after  all ;  and  for  my  own  part,  I  can  only  see 
two  faults  that  you  have  got." 

"  Pray  tell  me  what  they  are,  that  I  may  try  to 
remedy  them." 

"  That,  perhaps,  would  not  be  so  easily  done. 
However,  I  will  name  them,  that  you  may  try  to  cor 
rect  the  one ;  the  other,  I  fear,  is  irreparable.  First 
of  all,  Miss  Walton,  you  are  very  proud.  I  do  not 
wish  to  censure  you  for  this,  because  I  believe  it  to 
be  an  honest  pride ;  but  I  would  that  you  were  less 
so,  for  my  sister's  greatest  fault  is  her  pride,  and  I 
fear,  that  owing  to  this  trait  in  both  your  characters, 
you  may  have  difficulty.  Secondly,  you  are  very 
handsome.  Now,  for  a  wealthy  heiress,  beauty  does 
very  well;  but  I  do  positively  assert  it  is  the  worst 
dower  a  poor  girl  can  have.  If  I  was  a  poor  man, 
and  had  a  daughter,  I  would  esteem  it  as  a  special 
favor  of  Providence,  if  I  found  her  positively 
homely." 

"  Indeed,  Sir,  I  never  thought  my  beauty  was 
alarming,"  I  replied,  with  a  spiteful  smile;  but  my 
friend  was  resolved  to  be  good-natured,  and  he  looked 
at  me  with  the  pitying  tenderness  of  a  father,  rather 
than  the  stern  mentor  I  had  taught  myself  to  regard 
him.  He  continued  in  a  gentle  voice — 

"  I  have  your  interest  at  heart,  Miss  Walton,  and 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER.  23 

as  I  took  you  from  your  mother,  I  feel  in  some  degree 
bound  to  watch  over  you.     Upon  these  grounds,  I 
know  you  will  permit  me  to  counsel  you;  and  if  ever 
you  stand  in  need  of  a  friend,  remember  to  appeal  _,. 
to  me." 

I  thanked  him,  very  kindly,  for  his  offers  of  friend 
ship  ;  but  now,  having  left  the  Cape  Fear  river,  and 
emerged  into  the  broad  ocean,  the  boat  rocked,  and 
a  sudden,  deathly  sickness  came  over  me,  and  in  fact 
over  every  body  around  me.  A  little  boy,  pale  as 
death,  ran  to  his  mother,  and  said,  "  Oh,  mamma,  what 
did  you  take  me  to  the  big  seas  for  ?"  There  was  a 
terrible  storm  at  sea.  Thick,  murky  clouds  were 
drifted  along  the  sky,  and  the  forked  lightning  played 
and  writhed  itself  amid  the  darkness.  The  waves 
were  rolling  and  tossing  in  the  madness  of  their  fury, 
and  our  little  boat  at  one  moment  rode  the  breast  of 
a  mighty  billow,  while  at  the  next,  two  tremendous 
waves  threatened  to  engulph  her.  There  was  no  fear 
of  death  came  to  me  then,  for  in  an  instant  I  was 
so  sick  that  I  did  not  care  what  became  of  me. 
Mr.  Woodville  lifted  me  in  his  arms,  carried  me  into 
the  inner  cabin,  and  gave  me  into  the  charge  of  the 
chamber-maid ;  and  so  perfectly  helpless  was  I,  that 
he  might  have  thrown  me  overboard,  and  I  should 
certainly  not  have  made  any  effort  to  prevent  him. 
,  All  things  must  have  a  close,  and  that  long  and 
terrible  night  at  length  came  to  an  end,  and  found  us 
safely  anchored  in  Charleston.  We  remained  here 


24  WAT-MARKS   IN   THE 

but  a  few  hours,  and  Mr.  Woodville  procured  me  a 
beautiful  boquet  of  roses,  which  grow  in  the  open  air 
all  winter  long,  and  grace  the  dwellings  of  these  tasty 
Southern  people.  We  arrived  that  same  day  in  D., 
where  we  found  a  carriage  and  fine  pair  of  horses 
waiting  to  take  us  to  the  plantation  of  Mrs.  Wood 
ville.  What  a  lovely  ride  was  that  which  we  took, 
twelve  miles  through  the  middle  of  the  State  of 
Georgia.  All  along  the  road-side  were  scattered  the 
most  beautiful  residences,  built  in  cottage  style,  and 
surrounded  with  luxuriant  gardens,  large  orchards, 
and  verdant  lawns.  Oh,  how  sweetly  the  moon  came 
out  and  silvered  the  tree  tops,  lighting  up  the  bosom 
of  earth  with  its  soft  radiance.  How  gently  the  mild, 
balmy  air  of  Georgia,  breathed  upon  my  pale  cheek, 
and  bade  the  roses  bloom  again.  How  delightful  to 
my  senses  was  the  perfume  of  the  lovely  flowers  that 
blossomed  around  me.  I  was  happy ! — Oh,  so  happy ! 
Now  and  then  there  have  been  moments  of  such  hap 
piness  in  my  life,  but  alas,  they  have  always  been 
succeeded  by  such  dark  clouds  that  I  have  learned 
to  dread  them.  I  was  silent,  for  my  heart  was  com 
muning  with  nature.  Mr.  Woodville  broke  in  upon 
my  reverie,  by  asking  me  how  I  liked  the  good  old 
State  of  Georgia?  "  Very  much,"  I  replied.  "In 
deed,  it  seems  to  me  to  be  perfectly  delightful ;  and 
I  think  I  could  be  happy  here,  if  only  mother  and 
Benny  were  with  me." 

"  Cease  to  pine  for  them,  and  I  have  no  doubt  you 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER.  25 

will  have  no  small  share  of  enjoyment,  for  you  will 
find  that  every  stranger  finds  a  welcome  in  the  homes 
and  hearts  of  the  Southern  people." 

At  this  moment  we  entered  an  avenue  densely 
shaded  by  two  long  rows  of  trees.  A  large  gate  was 
swung  open,  and  the  carriage  rolled  over  the  smooth, 
velvet-like  turf.  The  tall  negro  gate-keeper  joyously 
welcomed  Mr.  Woodville  home. 

"  How  is  your  mistress  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Amazin'  well,  massa,"  replied  the  happy  voice  of 
the  slave.  "  She  he  spectin'  you  to-night." 

The  avenue  was  a  mile  in  length,  and  we  quickly 
rode  over  it  and  arrived  at  a  second  gate,  which 
opened  into  the  garden  in  front  of  the  house.  Here 
a  whole  troop  of  negroes,  large  and  small,  crowded 
around  us,  with  gleaming  torches  in  their  hands,  not 
withstanding  the  moon  shone  brightly.  Some  helped 
us  to  alight ;  one  took  my  shawl,  another  my  carpet 
bag  ;  one  lifted  my  trunk  from  the  box,  and  carried 
it  as  if  it  had  been  a  feather.  Mr.  Woodville  offered 
me  his  arm,  and  we  walked  through  the  flowery  walks 
of  a  garden  to  the  house.  Let  me  pause  on  the 
threshold  to  describe  the  situation,  before  I  enter  it. 

Mrs.  Woodville's  residence  is  built  on  the  top  of  a 
hill.  In  front,  the  declivity  is  so  gradual  as  scarcely 
to  be  perceived,  but  at  the  back,  it  winds  suddenly 
down  to  a  little  brook  that  rolls  at  its  Base.  Here  is 
the  kitchen  garden,  well  watered  by  the  stream  which 
has  been  taught  to  wander  throughout  the  length  and 
3* 


26  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

breadth  of  it,  and  it  is  consequently  in  the  highest  state 
of  cultivation.  On  the  hill  side  to  the  left  is  a  long 
row  of  buildings,  each  with  their  gardens  enclosed. 
This  is  the  negro  quarter.  On  the  right  side  is  a 
thick,  dense  forest.  The  great-'us,  as  it  is  called  by 
the  blacks,  is  a  frame  building,  two  stories  high.  A 
large  hall  runs  through  the  house,  leaving  two  rooms 
on  either  side.  The  two  front  rooms  are  handsomely 
furnished,  and  one  of  them  is  used  as  a  parlor ;  the 
other  as  a  dining  room.  The  two  back  rooms  are 
sleeping  apartments;  the  one  adjoining  the  parlor  is 
mine,  the  other  is  Mrs.  Woodville's.  Although  the 
weather  is  mild  and  warm,  these  Georgians  shiver 
with  the  cold,  and  a  large  fire,  blazing  with  pine 
knots,  is  burning  both  in  the  parlor  and  dining-room. 
The  curtains  are  closely  drawn,  and  a  richly  chased 
lamp  of  silver  is  burning  on  the  table.  Every  thing 
betrays  the  ease  and  wealth  of  the  owner ;  and  there 
is  about  these  country  residences  a  sort  of  home 
appearance,  often  looked  for  in  vain  in  our  large 
cities. 

Mr.  Woodville  led  me  into  the  parlor,  and  intro 
duced  me  to  his  sister.  She  sat  in  a  large  arm-chair, 
covered  with  green  velvet.  Her  feet  rested  on  a 
velvet  cushion.  She  was  about  fifty  years  old,  and 
her  face  still  bore  the  impress  of  matronly  beauty. 
But  there  was  that  about  the  eagle  glancing  of  her 
large,  black  eye,  and  in  the  firm  compression  of  the 
mouth,  that  spoke  the  imperiousness  of  which  her 


LIFE   OF   A  WANDERER.  27 

brother  had  told  me.  Her  silvery  hair  was  parted  in 
the  middle,  and  combed  straight  back,  leaving  to  view 
a  fine  lofty  brow.  She  was  dressed  in  deep  mourn 
ing,  and  a  snowy  cap  relieved  the  darkness  of  her 
attire.  She  rose  with  all  the  grace  of  a  high-bred 
lady  as  I  entered,  and  received  me  from  her  brother's 
hand  with  a  winning  smile ;  but  when  she  spoke,  the 
cold  and  measured  tone  of  her  voice  struck  a  chill  to 
my  heart,  and  made  me  recoil  from  her  in  spite  of 
myself. 

"I  am  most  happy  to  welcome  you  to  Georgia, 
Miss  Walton.  Permit  me  to  introduce  to  you  my  son 
Octave." 

A  young  gentleman  of  five  or  six  and  twenty,  came 
forward  and  took  my  hand,  expressing  his  delight  at 
seeing  me.  It  seemed  to  me  all  like  a  hoax.  I  did 
not  believe  in  the  sincerity  of  his  delight. 

"  These,"  continued  Mrs.  Woodville,  summoning  to 
her,  four  children,  who  had  been  sitting  in  perfect 
silence  on  one  of  the  sofas,  "  are  my  children,  or  I 
should  say  my  grandchildren.  Albert,  the-  eldest, 
is  now  fourteen  years  old,  and  having  been  for  the 
last  five  years  in  Alabama,  with  his  uncle,  his  educa 
tion  has  been  sadly  neglected.  I  trust,  however, 
under  your  care,  soon  to  see  him  improve.  Flora, 
the  next,  is  now  twelve,  and  has  only  to  apply  herself 
to  be  a  very  smart  girl.  Gregory  is  nine  years  old, 
and  you  will  understand  me  when  I  tell  you,  that  if 
he  is  as  good  as  he  is  smart,  he  will  do  very  well. 


28  WAY-MARKS   IN  THE 

And  now,  last  and  least,  comes  the  youngest  of  our 
little  family,  Laurestina,  six  years  old,  who,  I  regret 
to  say,  knows  nothing  but  her  letters.  Laurie,  this  is 
your  new  teacher.  Will  you  try  to  learn  your  lesson 
from  her,  like  a  good  girl?" 

"  I  will,  if  she  don't  whip  me,"  was  the  reply. 
"And  why  should  I  whip  you,  little  Laurie,"  said  I, 
stretching  out  my  hand  to  the  child,  who  was  indeed 
one  of  the  most  beautiful  children  I  ever  beheld ;  and 
she  seeing  something  in  my  pale  and  wearied  face  to 
call  forth  her  childish  sympathy,  climbed  into  my  lap, 
and  throwing  her  white  arms  about  my  neck,  kissed 
me  over  and  over  again.  This  movement,  so  unex 
pected  on  my  part,  so  like  the  darling  baby-brother  I 
had  left  far  away,  touched  me  to  the  heart ;  and  as 
the  sweet  memories  of  home  and  a  mother's  love 
crowded  around  me,  I  could  forbear  no  longer,  but 
broke  down  again.  I  knew  it  was  very  foolish,  but  I 
could  not  help  it. 

"What!"  said  Laurestina,  "haven't  you  got  any 
mother,  either?  I  have  none.  They  buried  her  in 
the  church  yard.  You  shall  go  with  me,  and  I  will 
show  you  the  grave  they  made  her." 

I  assured  her  my  mother  was  living,  but  far  away 
from  me,  and  that  I  had  never  left  her  before. 

"Well,  then,  don't  cry,"  she  said,  coaxingly. 
What  makes  you  cry  ?  Oh,  I  know,  now — you  are 
hungry.  Well,  you  shall  have  some  nice  supper. 
Mother  would  not  have  supper  dished  up  till  you 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDEREK.  29 

came.  Let  me  take  off  your  bonnet.  There,  Flora, 
take  that,  and  put  it  away.  Now,  then,  your  cloak. 
Oh,  I  can't  get  it  undone.  Come  here,  Flora,  you 
try." 

Flora,  in  a  few  moments,  removed  my  cloak. 

"  I  think  you  are  a  very  saucy  thing,  and  if  I  was 
Miss  Walton,  I  would  not  permit  you  to  sit  in  my  lap 
that  way,"  said  Mrs.  Woodville,  smiling. 

"  Oh,  I  like  to  have  her — I  love  children  dearly,"  I 
replied.  Mrs.  Woodville  said — 

"You  have  just  come  off  a  long,  fatiguing  jour 
ney,  and  we  will  have  supper  at  once.  With  your 
leave,  Octave  will  conduct  you  out  to  the  dining- 
room." 

I  expressed  my  entire  readiness.     Octave  said — 

"  If  Miss  Walton  will  permit  me,  I  shall  be  too 
happy." 

I  expressed  my  appreciation  of  his  kindness  by  an 
inclination  of  the  head.  He  led  me  out,  and  placed 
me  next  his  mother.  Every  body  around  the  table 
seemed  to  have  a  good  appetite  but  myself,  and  as 
they  were  all  engrossed  discussing  the  merits  of  the 
supper,  I  embraced  the  opportunity  of  examining  my 
new  acquaintances. 

Albert  was  tall  for  his  age,  but  very  thin.  He  had 
a  most  sanctimonious  expression  of  countenance,  but 
at  the  same  time  he  was  one  of  those  persons  who  are 
continually  devising  evil,  and  practising  it  in  such  a 
manner  that  the  blame  may  fall  on  the  innocent. 


30  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

He  hated  nothing  more  than  his  book,  because  he  was 
idle,  and  his  mind  was  constantly  roving  about,  with 
out  the  power  or  the  will  of  concentrating  it  upon 
any  subject. 

Flora  was  a  beautiful  girl,  but  the  sweet  modesty 
of  her  manners,  rather  than  the  peerless  loveliness 
of  her  face,  was  her  greatest  attraction.  Her  com 
plexion  was  dark,  but  perfectly  dazzling  in  its  clear 
ness.  Her  large,  black  eyes  were  soft  as  those  of  the 
gazelle.  Indeed,  her  features  were  faultless;  and 
one  to  judge  of  her  head,  would  have  supposed  her 
mental  powers  to  be-  of  the  highest  possible  order. 
This  was  not  the  case,  however.  Between  herself 
and  the  objects  of  her  attainment,  there  ever  seemed 
to  be  a  veil;  but  she  worked  so  unceasingly,  and 
so  entirely  and  industriously  devoted  herself  to  her 
studies,  that  she  was  sure  to  gain  in  the  end  what 
more  favoured  persons  took  in  at  a  glance. 

Gregory  Grayson  came  next  in  order,  and  certainly 
I  have  never  met  a  more  perfect  character.  He  was 
nine  years  old,  and  owing  to  a  delicate  organization, 
was  very  small  of  his  age.  No  one  would  have  called 
him  handsome,  but  there  was  an  expression  of  good 
ness  in  his  face,  more  felt  than  seen.  His  head 
would  have  served  for  a  model  of  classical  beauty. 
His  form  was  lithe  and  agile,  and  his  eyes  were  bright 
with  intellect.  A  love  of  mischief  frequently  got  him 
into  scrapes,  but  this  was  counterbalanced  by  his 
desire  to  please.  I  never  saw  a  child  more  sorry  for 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER.  31 

having  given  offence,  or  more  eager  to  make  every 
reparation  in  his  power.  His  retentive  powers  were 
excellent,  and  his  comprehension  of  the  dark  points 
of  science,  was  astonishing.  The  rapid  progress  he 
made  in  Algebra,  Philosophy,  Chemistry,  and  Euclid, 
often  filled  me  with  amazement ;  and  I  soon  became 
convinced  that  he  would  leave  me  far  behind  in  the 
wonderful  soarings  of  his  intellect — but,  I  am  antici 
pating.  He  was  very  affectionate,  and  would  suffer 
any  punishment  rather  than  "betray  his  brother  Albert, 
who  was  often  guilty  of  acts  attributed  to  Gregory. 

Laurestina,  sweet  little  girl,  no  words  of  praise, 
no  high-toned  description,  no  face  of  loveliness,  ever 
eclipsed  her.  By  nature  she  was  beautiful.  Her 
hair  was  chestnut-brown,  and  curled  over  the  whitest 
neck  in  the  world;  her  eyes  were  a  dark,  I  might 
almost  say  mazarine  blue ;  her  complexion  was  of  the 
most  lily-like  transparency,  and  her  rosy  cheeks  and 
lips  made  her  the  picture  of  health.  Her  disposition 
was  amiable,  but  she  had  been  petted  to  such  a 
degree  that  she  was  the  hardest  to  manage  of  all  my 
little  scholars.  Sometimes,  when  I  got  vexed  with 
her,  I  would  threaten  to  send  her  to  her  grandmother, 
but  she  would  throw  her  arms  around  me,  and  caress 
me  till  the  frown  had  vanished  from  my  face,  and  she 
would  welcome  the  succeeding  smile  with  promises  of 
amendment,  and  tell  me  she  would  positively  learn 
her  lesson,  but  it  was  so  hard. 

Let  us  leave  Laurestina,  and  spare  a  few  moments 


32  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

to  Octavo  Woodville,  the  son  and  heir  to  an  immense 
estate,  comprising  five  or  six  plantations,  and  a  large 
sum  of  money  in  bank.  He  was  a  good  specimen  of 
a  southern  planter.  You  would  not  have  pronounced 
him  handsome,  and  yet  his  face  and  form  were  not 
without  a  certain  dignity  which  lent  an  interest  to  his 
society.  He  was  generous  and  kind,  and  yet,  when 
you  looked  in  his  face,  you  feared  to  trust  him. 
Indeed  he  was  altogether  one  of  those  persons  who 
are  governed  by  impulses,  rather  than  by  any  fixed 
principles  of  right.  His  retreating  chin  proved  him 
to  be  a  man  easily  moulded  by  a  stronger  will  than 
his  own ;  and  a  certain  sensual  expression  about  his 
mouth,  bade  you  beware  of  him.  He  eyed  me  very 
closely,  and  his  manner  to  me  was  so  marked,  that 
several  times  I  felt  the  warm  blood  tingling  in  my 
cheek.  He  was  the  only  son  of  Mrs.  Woodville. 
The  four  children  were  the  offspring  of  her  daughter, 
who  had  died  when  Laurestina  was  a  few  days  old ; 
and  Mrs.  Woodville  had  taken  them  and  adopted 
them  as  her  own.  They  were  all  very  fond  of  their 
uncle  Octave,  who  indeed  returned  their  affection  with 
interest,  and  never  went  to  town  without  coming  back 
laden  with  presents  for  them. 

John  Henry  Woodville  was  the  only  brother  of 
Albert  Woodville,  deceased,  and  since  his  brother's 
death  he  had  left  his  home  in  Telfair  county,  and 
come  to  reside  with  his  sister-in-law,  whom  he  admired 
and  loved  as  a  sister. 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDEREE.  38 

Such  then  was  the  family  circle  of  the  Woodvilles, 
and  although  in  the  quiet,  peaceful  country  home  to 
which  I  have  introduced  you,  there  may  be  none  of 
the  high-toned  romance  so  fashionable  at  the  pre 
sent  day,  yet  believe  me,  you  will  find  some  experien 
ces  which  will  remind  you  of  home,  and  may  perhaps 
awaken  kindly  feelings  in  the  heart.  It  is  ever  bet 
ter  to  portray  the  good  rather  than  the  evil  of  human 
nature,  and  only  those  writers  can  hope  to  win  and 
keep  the  noble  heart  of  an  American  public,  who  seek 
to  benefit  and  improve  mankind.  Shall  I  not  regret, 
when  I  lay  my  head  upon  a  dying  pillow,  if  I  have 
written  one  line  in  encouragement  of  evil  ?  Oh  yes, 
and  that  God  may  make  me  an  instrument  of  good,  is 
the  sincere  prayer  of  my  heart.  If  I  can  die  in  the 
belief  that  I  have  made  others  happy,  I  shall  feel  that 
I  have  not  lived  altogether  in  vain. 


34  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 


CHAPTER  III. 

The  next  morning  dawned  bright  and  beautiful,  and 
I  arose,  and  having  completed  my  toilet,  walked  forth 
to  enjoy  the  fresh  sweetness  of  the  morning  air.  Half 
way  down  the  avenue  I  met  little  Flora,  who  in  an 
swer  to  my  inquiry  of  where  she  had  been,  told  me  she 
had  just  been  carrying  her  books  to  the  school  house, 
which  was  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  house. 
She  turned  and  walked  with  me,  and  her  artless  con 
versation,  and  modest  sweetness  of  manner,  interested 
me  very  much.  We  wandered  along  gathering  wild 
flowers  as  we  walked,  and  forming  them  into  a  boquet, 
when  suddenly  a  horseman  passed  us  at  a  quick  gallop, 
going  in  the  direction  of  the  house. 
"How  do,  cousin  John?"  said  Flora. 

"Quite  lively,"  thank  you,  was  the  reply.  "Is 
Uncle  Octave  up  yet?" 

"No,  I  think  not,"  said  Flora,  but  her  words  were 
unheeded,  for  the  new  comer  had  spurred  on  his  horse, 
and  was  already  up  to  the  inner  gate,  where  he  dis 
mounted.  We  continued  our  walk,  Flora  telling  me 
that  cousin  John  lived  thtee  miles  on  the  road  to  D., 
with  his  sister,  who  had  been  lately  married.  That 
he  was  very  wild,  and  would  not  pay  any  attention  to 
his  studies,  but  wa«  up  to  all  the  mischief  in  the  world. 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER.  35 

At  this  moment  somebody  hallooed  loudly  after  us, 
and  as  we  turned,  we  saw  little  Jacob  running  towards 
us  at  full  speed,  to  call  us  to  breakfast.  Jacob  was  a 
slave,  yet  he  was  nearly  as  white  as  myself.  Of  his 
parents  I  shall  say  more  hereafter. 

We  returned  to  the  house,  and  found  the  family 
seated  at  breakfast.  Mutual  inquiries  and  salutations 
passed  between  us.  The  conversation  was  then  re 
sumed  where  it  had  been  dropped  upon  our  entrance. 

"Now,  say  you  will  go  uncle,"  said  cousin  John. 

"There  will  be  rare  sport,  Sirnms  is  going,  and  old 
man  Thompson,  who  you  know  to  be  one  of  the  rarest 
old  larks  in  the  country.  Oh,  we  will  have  such  fun." 

"  Octave,"  said  Mrs.  Woodville,  "don't  go  one  inch, 
John  might  better  be  at  his  studies." 

"  He  would'nt  do  any  good  there  if  his  mind  was'nt 
in  them,"  interrupted  Mr.  "Woodville,  senior. 

"I  think  I'll  go,  boy,"  said  Octavo-  "How  long 
shall  we  be  gone  ?" 

"  Oh,  not  more  than  three  days,  and  we  can  pick  up 
plenty  of  company  on  the  way-side.  There  is  Jones 
that  wants  to  go,  and  also  Bill  Thomas." 

"  "Well,  I  will  go,"  said  Octave,  hastily  swallowing 
his  coffee,  and  rising  from  the  table  he  left  the  room. 
The  next  moment  we  heard  his  voice  on  the  porch. 

"April,  put  Grey  Eagle  and  Bill's  "Wife  in  the 
buggy.  Do  you  hear?" 

"Yes,  massa." 

"  Have  they  been  well  fed?" 


36  WAY-MARKS   IN  THE 

"Yes,  massa." 

"  How  is  Champion's  sore  foot  ?" 

"  Most  well,  massa." 

"  See  to  it,  you  black  rascal,  do  you  hear  ?" 

"Yes,  massa." 

In  a  few  moments  Octave  and  his  nephew  were  dri 
ving  down  the  avenue,  at  a  rate  that  made  it  a  problem, 
rather  difficult  of  solution,  whether  he  or  his  harem 
scarem  nephew  was  the  wildest. 

The  hour  of  nine  soon  approached,  and  I  set  out,  with 
my  little  scholars,  for  the  school  house.  It  was  a 
small,  but  nicely  built  cottage,  with  but  one  room  in  it, 
and  windows  on  every  side.  Upon  a  slight  elevation  at 
one  end  of  the  room  was  the  desk  at  which  I  was  to 
sit.  One  of  the  children  sat  at  my  right  hand,  another 
at  my  left,  while  two  of  them  were  placed  immediately 
in  front,  and  each  of  them  had  their  separate  desk, 
nicely  filled  with  books,  &c. 

I  rang  a  little  bell  to  announce  that  school  had  com 
menced,  and  I  own  I  felt  some  slight  trepidation,  at 
finding  myself,  who  but  a  few  months  before  had  been  a 
scholar,  elevated  to  the  position  of  a  teacher.  I  opened 
a  large  bible  that  lay  before  me,  and  read  in  a  slow, 
solemn  manner,  a  chapter  from  the  New  Testament. 
After  reading  it,  I  asked  the  children  many  questions, 
to  ascertain  if  they  had  paid  attention  to  what  they 
had  heard. 

The  lesson  I  had  selected  was  the  thirteenth  chapter 
of  Matthew.  When  I  asked  the  children  to  repeat 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER.  37 

to  me  what  I  had  been  reading  about,  there  was  a 
profound  silence  for  about  two  minutes. 

"  What,"  I  exclaimed,  "  is  there  no  one  here  who 
listened  to  me  and  can  answer  my  question  ?" 

Gregory  said,  in  timid  tone,  "I  can." 

"Let  me^hear,"  I  asked,  somewhat  encouraged. 

"  You  read  the  parable  of  the  sower  and  the  seed." 

"And  can  you  remember  what  else." 

"  The  parable  of  the  tares  that  were  sowed  by  the 
enemy,  when  the  good  man  slept." 

"  I  am  very  much  pleased  that  you  were  so  attentive, 
Gregory.  Can  you  call  any  thing  else  to  mind  ?" 

"  Yes.  You  said  that  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven  was 
like  to  a  mustard  seed." 

"Children,"  said  I,  "what  are  you  thinking  about 
to  let  this  little  boy,  nine  years  old,  answer  all  these 
questions?" 

"  Our  last  teacher  never  asked  us  to  tell  her  what 
she  had  been  reading  about,"  interceded  Flora,  in  a 
timid  voice. 

"Well,"  said  I,  "whenever  I  read  to  you  I  want 
you  to  pay  attention,  for  I  shall  always  expect  you  to 
answer  any  questions  I  may  think  proper  to  put  to 
you,  and  then  if  there  is  any  thing  you  do  not  under 
stand,  I  will  explain  it  to  you." 

I  now  proceeded  to  examine  my  pupils,  and  found 
that  Albert  and  Laurestina  might  very  nearly  be 
classed  together,  notwithstanding  the  difference  in 
their  ages. 

4* 


38  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

But  I  cannot  expect  to  interest  you  with  the  mo 
notonous  details  of  a  school  room.  A  month  passed  by 
without  any  event  of  importance,  and  all  had  been 
peaceful  and  quiet  at  school.  An  unruly  spirit  had, 
however,  often  threatened  to  give  me  trouble  in  the 
person  of  Albert.  He  would  not  learn  iris  lessons, 
although  I  reasoned  with  him,  and  told  him^what 
would  be  the  consequence  if  he  encouraged  his  habits 
of  idleness.  I  threatened  that  I  would  keep  him  in 
after  school  hours,  and  thus  he  would  be  debarred  the 
pleasure  of  playing  with  the  children.  It  was  all  to 
no  effect.  Each  day  it  seemed  to  grow  worse,  and 
at  last  I  felt  that  to  excuse  his  negligence  any  longer 
was  dishonorable  on  my  part.  I  was  paid  handsome 
ly  to  teach  him.  How  could  I  reconcile  it  to  my  con 
science  to  take  the  money  if  he  did  not  learn  ? 

I  called  him  up  to  me,  and  opened  the  atlas.  His 
lesson  was  in  geography,  and  so  little  was  he  versed  in 
that  study,  that  he  would  have  believed  me  if  I  had 
told  him  that  Greenland  was  at  the  Equator,  and  Pata 
gonia  at  the  North  Pole.  I  commenced  to  hear  him 
his  lesson,  but  he  broke  down  at  the  third  question. 
I  forgave  him  that,  and  passed  on  to  the  next.  He 
did  not  know  it.  The  next,  he  had  forgotten  it,  and 
Flora  had  taken  the  atlas  from  him  before  he  had 
finished  his  lessson.  I  told  him  I  would  take  no  excuse. 
That  he  should  go  on  and  take  his  writing  lesson  and 
then  recite  his  history,  and  after  that  he  should  stay 
in  school  till  he  had  learnt  his  geography,  be  it  early 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER.  39 

or  late.  He  took  the  atlas  and  went  back  to  his  seat, 
laughing.  No  doubt  he  thought  I  was  too  gentle  to 
put  my  threat  into  execution. 

He  trifled  away  his  time,  and  when  twelve  o'clock 
came,  I  dismissed  the  school,  and  bade  him  keep  his 
seat.  The  children  got  on  their  things,  and  eyeing 
me  very  curiously,  went  out,  one  after  another.  They 
lingered  round  the  door,  seemingly  indisposed  to  leave 
their  brother  in  his  trouble.  Flora  came  in,  after  a 
little  while,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  and  begged  me  to 
please  forgive  Albert,  and  let  him  go.  I  told  her  it 
was  impossible,  and  advised  her  to  take  the  children, 
and  go  up  to  the  house  with  them,  that  he  might  have 
nothing  to  take  his  attention  from  his  studies.  She 
obeyed  me,  instantly,  and  left  us  once  more  alone. 

.  I  was  writing  some  French  exercises.  Although 
apparently  deeply  engaged  in  my  task,  I  could  see  Al 
bert  making  faces  at  me.  He  would  pull  down  his 
eyes,  stretch  his  mouth,  and  apply  his  finger  to  his  nose. 

There  are  none  so  blind  as  those  who  will  not  see,  and 
I  was  resolved  not  to  notice  the  little  comedy  he  was 
playing  with  himself.  At  last  I  looked  up  and  said, 
calmly  : 

"Albert,  do  you  know  your  lesson?" 

"Not  yet,"  he  replied,  changing  color. 

"You  had  best  learn  it  at  once  then,  or  I  fonr  ym 
will  get  no  dinner  to-day." 

He  began  to  cry. 


40  WAY-MARKS   IN  THE 

"  Please  forgive  me  this  once,  and  I  will  never  come 
to  school  again,  without  knowing  my  lessons." 

"  I  cannot  do  it,  Albert.  I  cannot  in  justice  to  you 
or  myself,  look  over  any  more  neglected  lessons." 

He  cried,  bitterly.  I  went  and  sat  down  by  him, 
and  laying  my  hand  on  his,  I  said,  gently : 

"  Albert,  I  must  insist  on  your  studying  your  task. 
I  can  no  longer  find  an  excuse  for  your  remissness.  I 
am  placed  here  by  your  grandmother  to  teach  you.  I 
feel  the  responsibility  to  be  a  great  one,  and  I  am 
convinced  it  would  be  sinful  in  me  to  allow  you  to  be 
confirmed  in  your  habits  of  idleness.  When  you  grow 
up  to  be  a  man,  you  will  come  and  thank  me  for  this 
firmness,  for  you  will  then  be  assured  that  it  was  your 
own  lasting  benefit  that  actuated  me.  Now,  you  see  it 
in  a  different  light,  and  you  think  it  cruel  in  me  to 
detain  you  here." 

"  You  hate  me.  Every  body  hates  me.  But  you 
love  Gregory.  You  never  keep  him  in,"  blubbered 
Albert. 

"  Gregory  always  knows  his  lessons  perfectly.  He 
never  misses  a  word.  He  takes  pride  in  having  a  good 
mark  set  down  to  his  name  every  day."  Here  I  was 
interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  Jacob. 

"Misses  says,  please  come  to  dinner,"  he  said. 
Albert  got  up  to  go. 

"Take  your  seat,"  said  I,  in  a  quiet  tone.  Then, 
turning  to  Jacob, 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER.  41 

"  Tell  your  mistress  I  have  been  obliged  to  keep 
Albert  in,  and  ask  her  to  please  send  him  a  biscuit  and 
a  cup  of  water.  Tell  her  that  I  have  a  head-ache  and 
don't  want  any  dinner." 

Jacob  ran  back  to  the  house,  and  Albert  said,  sneer- 


"  I  won't  touch  the  biscuit,  and  I  am  glad  that  you 
will  have  to  go  without  your  dinner.  You  got  a  head 
ache,  any  how,  tormenting  me." 

"For  shame,  Albert,"  said  Mr.  Woodville,  who  at 
that  moment  entered  the  school  room.  Albert  hung 
his  head. 

"  Learn  that  lesson  perfectly,  you  naughty  boy,  and 
don't  leave  this  room  till  Miss  Walton  returns  to  it," 
said  Mr.  W.  "If  you  do  I  will  take  away  the  roan 
filly  I  gave  you.  "  Come,  Miss  Walton.  Come  up  to 
the  house  and  get  some  dinner.  It  will  never  do  to  let 
you  make  a  martyr  of  yourself*  for  this  head-strong 
boy." 

I  was  sorry  to  leave  Albert  all  alone  to  bear  his 
punishment,  but  remonstrance  was  useless,  and  Mr. 
Woodville  pulled  me  away,  and  drawing  my  arm  within 
his,  led  me  along  towards  the  house,  saying, 

"  Bad  boy,  that  —  uncle's  fault  —  been  away  five  years 

—  no  sort  of  management  —  ruined  —  good  for  nothing 

—  lazy  —  idle  —  worthless.  '  ' 

"  Oh,  I  hope  he  is  not  ruined,"  said  I.  "  I  do  not 
despair  of  seeing  him  improve,  but  it  is  very  hard  to 
overcome  habits  of  indolence  all  at  once.  When  they 


42  WAY-MARKS   IN  THE 

grow  so  upon  one  they  become  second  nature.  I  only 
regret  that  I  was  forced  to  be  so  strict  with  him,  for 
believe  me  I  would  far  rather  win  the  love  than  the 
fear  of  my  little  pupils." 

"You  are  not  near  strict  enough,  my  child,"  said 
the  old  man,  looking  down  at  me  in  a  fatherly  way. 
"  You  were  never  formed  to  buffet  with  the  world.  You 
are  slender  and  delicate,  and  I  fear  you  are  too  close 
ly  shut  up  in  that  school  room.  If  there  is  any  thing 
I  can  do  to  make  your  situation  more  pleasant,  I  beg 
you  will  let  me  know.  They  call  me  cross,  and  say 
the  old  man  is  dead  to  all  the  sympathies  of  the  world, 
but  don't  you  believe  a  word  of  it.  There  are  plenty 
of  young  men  about,  who  have  harder  hearts  than  I,  I 
can  tell  you." 

Thus  passed  away  the  first  month  of  my  residence 
at  the  home  of  the  Woodvilles.  Gradually  I  was  be 
coming  contented,  though  I  still  longed  for  my  mother 
and  darling  brother.  I  had  written  two  letters,  and 
as  yet  had  received  no  reply.  One  day,  Octave  came 
in,  and  said  he  was  going  to  town,  and  asked  who 
wanted  him  to  bring  them  a  letter  ? 

"I  do,  if  you  please,"  said  I. 

'M-Vell,  I'll  see  what  I  can  do  for  you,  but  I  don't 
believe  there  will  be  any  for  you.  Your  mother  has 
foYgotten  all  about  you  by  this  time,  depend  upon  it." 

Octave  started  upon  his  ride.  It  was  Saturday,  and 
there  was  no  school.  The  day  was  warm  ana  pleasant 
and  we  carried  chairs  out,  and  sat  upon  the  porch. 


LIFE   OF  A   WANDERER.  43 

Flora  and  Laurestina  had  often  made  me  promise  I 
would  dress  them  a  doll,  and  I  was  now  busily  engaged 
redeeming  my  promise.  To  see  the  delight  of  the  chil 
dren,  as  one  by  one  I  finished  their  articles  of  dress, 
and  at  last  proceeded  to  dress  them,  was  pleasure  enough 
for  me,  but  my  heart  was  not  in  my  work.  I  was 
watching  eagerly  the  return  of  Octave.  I  firmly  be 
lieved  he  would  have  a  letter  for  me,  and  I  could  not 
repress  my  impatience,  as  hour  after  hour  passed  by 
and  still  he  tarried.  Night  came  on,  and  the  bell  rang 
for  supper. 

We  took  our  places  around  the  table.  Mrs.  Wood- 
ville  said  to  me,  kindly, 

"  I  am  afraid  our  quiet  life  is  not  one  to  make  you 
happy,  Miss  Walton.  You  are  looking  very  pale,  this 
evening." 

"  Indeed,  madam,  I  cannot  complain  of  any  feeling 
df  unhappiness,  save  only  in  the  necessary  separation 
from  my  family.  I  should  be  indeed  ungrateful  to  you 
for  all  your  kindness  if  I  displayed  a  fretful  or  discon 
tented  spirit." 

"  Do  you  think  you  could  be  happy  to  live  always 
in  the  country,  and  never  see  the  city  again  ?"  asked 
Mr.  Woodville. 

"  I  should,  certainly,  upon  some  easy  conditions,  for 
indeed  I  think  there  is  far  more  real  pleasure  in  the 
quiet,  peaceful  life  you  lead.  Oh,  I  am  sick  and  often 
have  been  of  the  bustle  and  ceaseless  din  of  the  city. 
There  is  a  something  in  its  changing  life  that  palls  upon 


44  WAY-MARKS 'IN  THE 

the  spirit,  and  I  have  often  felt,  when  I  have  only  left 
it  for  a  few  hours,  and  have  wandered  amid  the  roman 
tic  and  sheltered  walks  of  Greenwood,  how  sweet  and 
soothing  it  would  be  to  rest  forever  in  the  forest  glades 
of  my  dear  native  land,  and  never  more  breathe  the 
hot  fevered  air  of  New  York.  I  love  the  flowers,  the 
grass,  and  the  sweet  singing  birds,  and  last,  but  not 
least,  the  deep-shaded  wildwood." 

"Well,  it  is  a  better  life,  I  think,  myself,  if  you  are 
not  too  far  removed  from  the  advantages  of  education, 
news  of  the  day,  &c." 

"  Oh  yes,  Uncle,  you  could  not  get  along  without 
your  papers  every  day,"  said  Albert. 

"What  can  keep  Octave  so  late?"  asked  Mr.  Wood- 
ville.  "  He  has  had  plenty  of  time  to  go  to  D.  and 
back.  I  guess  he  has  fallen  in  with  some  gay  com 
pany." 

"  There  he  is,  now,"  said  his  mother. 
And  in  fact,  upon  the  still  evening  air,  his  clear  voice 
rang  out: 

"April,  take  my  horse." 

In  another  moment  he  entered  the  room.  I  looked 
at  him  eagerly,  but  did  not  like  to  rise  to  go  to  him. 
He  said,  carelessly, 

"  Don't  look  at  me,  I  have  got  nothing  for  you." 

He  sat  down  to  his  supper.     Ah,  how  my  heart  sank 

within  me.     I  could  not  account  for  my  mother's  silence. 

I  feared  she  might  be  ill.     I  knew  better  than  to  believe 

she  had  forgotten  me.     I  could  as  soon  have  doubted 


LIFE  OF  A  WANDERER.  45 

an  angel,  as  the  tender  affection  of  my  beloved  mother. 

Octave  finished  his  supper,  and  laid  back  in  his  chair. 
"  How  sad  Miss  Walton  looks,"  said  he. 

I  sat  resting  my  head  on  my  hand.  I  felt  dispirited. 
So  much  so  indeed  that  though  I  heard  what  he  said, 
I  had  no  heart  to  answer. 

"  Come,  come,"  said  he,  "  what  would  you  give  me 
for  a  letter?" 

"  You  can't  make  me  believe,  now,  that  you  have 
got  one." 

"  I  can't,  aye — what  are  those?" 

Saying  this,  he  held  up  two  letters. 

Laurestina  stole  noiselessly  behind  him,  seized  the 
letters,  and  brought  them  to  me.  They  were  indeed 
mine,  and  you  may  imagine  how  fondly  I  kissed  the 
one  directed  in  my  mother's  handwriting.  It  brought 
me  the  pleasant  tidings  that  my  brother  and  herself 
were  in  excellent  health,  and  as  happy  as  they  could 
be  in  my  absence.  It  contained  much  good  advice, 
and  wound  up  with  her  blessing.  The  second  letter 
was  from  my  teacher,  who  having  known  me  from 
childhood,  naturally  felt  interested  in  my  welfare. 
After  writing  me  a  long  letter,  she  proved  that  it  was 
written  by  a  woman,  by  adding  a  postcript.  The 
contents  of  said  postcript  puzzled  me  not  a  little. 
They  ran  as  follows : 

"  A  certain  young  gentleman,  who  often  saw  you 
at  church,  and  who  had  constantly  annoyed  me  for 
an  introduction  to  you,  is  in  despair  at  finding  you 


46  WAY-MARKS    IN    THE 

gone  to  the  South.  He  begged  me  to  warn  you  not 
to  get  married  out  there,  without  indeed  you  would 
insure  your  own  happiness  by  so  doing.  If  you  could 
hear  the  way  he  goes  on,  I  do  think,  calm  as  you  are, 
it  would  move  you.  He  made  me  get  all  the  letters 
y^u  had  written  to  your  mother,  and  read  them  to 
him;  and  he  even  insisted  on  taking  copies  of  them, 
but  to  this  I  objected  without  you  would  grant  your 
consent." 

Such  was  the  postscript  of  my  teacher's  letter,  and 
I  well  knew  that  the  gentleman,  whoever  he  might 
be,  must  be  an  excellent  man,  or  her  ideas  of  pro 
priety  would  never  have  suffered  her  to  mention  him 
to  me.  I  could  not  make  out  who  it  could  be.  and 
I  found  myself  interested  in  one  who  liked  me  so 
much.  Now,  I  am  not  writing  a  love-sick  story,  and 
I  think  that  the  trash  which  is  every  day  dished  up 
for  the  young  girls  of  the  present  generation,  does 
more  harm  in  filling  their  heads  with  romantic  non 
sense,  and  unfitting  them  for  the  calm,  sober  and 
matronly  duties  of  life,  than  all  good  common  sense 
writers  can  hope  to  improve;  yet,  it  must  not  be 
supposed  that  I  shall  exclude  love  from  my  book.  A 
pure  and  holy  affection  is  the  guiding  star  of  exist 
ence.  Love  knits  together  the  whole  human  family ; 
holds  in  golden  chains  the  parent  and  the  child,  the 
wife  and  the  husband;  and-  more  than  all  beside, 
unites  the  poor  feeble  creature  to  its  maker,  God. 
Marriage  is  the  appointed  lot  of  woman ;  and  blessed 


LIFE   OP   A   WANDERER.  47 

with  the  holy  ties  of  husband  and  children,  she 
reaches  the  perfection  of  human  happiness.  You  will 
excuse  me,  then,  when  I  confess  that  I  was  interested 
in  this  stranger,  whom  I  had  never  seen,  for  I  well 
knew  my  teacher  would  have  buried  forever  such  a 
secret,  could  she  have  supposed  the  slightest  blame^to 
be  attached  to  the  feeling.  I  was  a  young  girl  of 
eighteen,  and  the  idea  of  being  fondly  remembered, 
pleased  me.  Ah,  could  I  have  forseen  the  dark 
future,  I  would  have  crushed  the  sentiment  at  its 
birth ;  but  like  many  another  before  me,  I  was  rush 
ing  thoughtlessly  on  to  the  rock  that  would  founder 
my  fragile  bark.  Oh,  could  some  warning  voice  have 
whispered  in  my  ear,  ere  it  was  too  late ;  but  there 
was  no  voice.  Alas !  none.  Do  you  expect  that  my 
life  has  turned  out  happy — that  my  note-book  records 
joyful  events  —  that  my  way-side  is  strewn  with 
flowers  ?  Do  not  hope  it,  but  profit  by  the  way-marks 
I  point  out  to  you,  and  rest  not  your  heart  and  its 
affections  too  surely  upon  earth ;  for  alas,  the  gilded 
bauble  will  vanish  at  your  touch,  the  fruit  will  turn 
to  bitter  ashes  in  your  mouth.  Would  to  God  I  had 
the  power  of  turning  one  human  soul  from  sin,  and 
the  "  way-marks  in  the  note-book  of  the  wanderer," 
would  not  be  written  in  vain. 

"  Miss  Walton  seems  pleased  with  her  letter,"  said 
Octave". 

"I  don't  know  why  you  should  object  to  that," 
observed  Mr.  Woodville,  crossly. 


48  WAY-MARKS  IN   THE 

"  I  didn't  say  I  did  object  to  it,"  returned  Octave, 
snappishly.  "  I  said — 

"  I  am  certainly  pleased  to  get  tidings  of  my 
mother,  and  I  think  you  would  be,  if  you  were  away 
from  her." 

"  Quite  likely — but  were  both,  those  letters  from 
your  mother— the  last  one,  for  instance?" 

"  No,"  said  I,  blushing — "  one  was  from  my 
teacher." 

"  "Do  they  employ  male  teachers  altogether,  in  New 
York  ?"  he  asked,  carelessly ;  and  I,  not  seeing  his 
drift,  answered,  "not  always." 

"  I  am  glad  grandma  did  not  ^et  a  gentleman  to 
teach  us,"  said  Gregory,  with  a  roguish  smile. 

"Why  so?"  asked  Mrs.  Woodville. 

"  Because  he  would  have  whipped  us  all,  whether 
we  deserved  it  or  not.  Mr.  Spicer  used  to  whip  us 
every  morning;  and  one  morning,  when  one  of  the 
boys  asked  him  what  he  was  going  to  whip  him  for, 
he  told  him  he  did  not  know,  but  that  if  he  had  not 

H 

done  any  thing  to  merit  it,  he  would  be  certain  to, 
before  night." 

"  Hard  logic,"  said  Mrs.  Woodville.  "  Octave, 
what  ails  you? — you  look  as  if  your  headache  was 
coming  on." 

"  It  don't  matter  much  if  it  does — I  may  as  well 
have  that  as  any  thing  else.". 

"Nonsense,  my  son,  how  you  talk." 

"Don't  mind  Octave,"  said  Mr.  Woodville,  peevish- 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER.  49 

ly — "  young  jnen  are  always  fretting  or  finding  fault 
about  something.  Mary  Jones  has  been  frowning  on 
him,  I  dare  say ;  but  it  will  not  take  him  long  to  for 
get  her.  There  is  sefflom  any  stability  in  these  high- 
flown  temperaments." 

"  Confound  Mary  Jones.  Much  I  care  for  her 
frowns  or  smiles — the  heartless  flirt." 

"  Oh,  uncle!"  said  Flora,  "that's  a  pretty  way  to 
talk  about  your  wife  that  is  to  be.  You  told  me  she 
was  to  be  my  aunt,  and  asked  me  how  I  should  like 
to  have  au  aunt  Mary." 

"  I  say  a  good  many  things,  Flora,  when  the  days 
are  long ;  when  they  are  short,  I  say  more  at  night." 

"  My  s<9n,"  said  Mrs.  Woodville,  solemnly,  "  you 
should  not  jest  upon  such  serious  subjects.  I  regret 
that  any  thing  should  have  occurred  to  put  you  out 
of  humon  Mary,  put  the  children  to  bed." 

As  soon  as  they  had  left  the  room,  she  continued — 

"If  you  expect  your  wife  to  be  respected,  you 
should  never  speak  of  her  in  that  mariner,  even  though 
it  be  in  jest.  Remember,  it  may  one  day  be  repeated 
to  her,  word  for  word." 

"I  don't  care  if  it  is.  I  say  again,  confound  Mary 
Jones — she  will  never  be  my  wife." 

"  Why  have  you  changed  your  mind  so  suddenly, 
my  son?" 

"  I  have  been  some  time  changing  my  mind.  It  is 
nothing  hasty.  Mary  Jones  is  a  very  good  girl  in 
.5* 


50  WAY-MARKS   IN  THE 

her  way,  but  I  tell  you  once  for  all,  I've  broken  with 
her."  " 

"  Octave,  is  this  acting  honourably?" 

"  A  "Woodville  never  acts  otherwise,"  said  the 
young  man,  proudly. 

"  Perhaps  you  intend  to  be  an  old  bachelor,  like 
myself?"  suggested  Mr.  Woodville. 

"  I  have  no  such  thoughts  at  present,  I  assure  you, 
uncle.  When  the  marrying  fit  comes  on  me,  I  shall 
go  to  the  North  for  a  wife;  so  don't  talk  to  me  any 
more  about  Mary  Jones — that  affair  is  all  settled." 

Mrs.  Woodville  exchanged  glances  with  her  brother, 
and  a  look  of  deep  meaning  passed  between  them. 
At  that  time,  in  the  innocence  of  my  heart,  I  had  no 
suspicion  of  their  thoughts.  Now,  alas  !  my  eyes  are 
opened,  and  I  see — I  see — but  what  I  see,  you  must 
not  know  as  yet. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Oae  lovely  afternoon  I  dismissed  my  school,  and 
walked  slowly  up  to  the  house  alone.  I  was  in  a  sad 
humor;  so  sad  that  I  had  waited  for  the  children  to 
get  out  of  sight  before  I  left  the  school  room.  Even 
their  little  joyous  prattling  annoyed  me,  for  my  heart 
was  pining  for  the  dear  ones  at  home.  As  I  crossed 
the  porch,  Octave  came  out  and  met  me.  He  said — 


LIFE   OF  A  WANDERER.  51 

"  Would  you  be  afraid  to  ride  out  behind  my  horses 
this  evening,  Miss  Walton?" 

"Why  afraid?"  I  asked. 

"  There  is  no  other  lady  in  Georgia  who  would  ask 
that  question.  My  horses  are  high-spirited  animals, 
and  are  the  terror  of  the  surrounding  country.  They 
have,  indeed,  to  speak  frankly,  a  most  unenviable 
reputation." 

"  I  do  not  fear  them  in  the  least." 

"  Did  you  ever  see  them  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,  I  have  been  in  the  stable  many  a  time  in 
the  morning  before  you  were  up,  and  they  have  eaten 
out  of  my  hand.  I  won  Grey  Eagle's  heart  at  once, 
with  a  kiss,  but  it  was  more  than  a  week  before  I 
could  bring  Bill's  Wife  to  terms.  She  likes  me  now, 
and  I  should  not  be  afraid  to  drive  them  fifty  miles, 
if  my  own  strength  would  hold  out." 

"  What,  you  have  been  in  the  stable,  and  gone  near 
enough  to  those  horses  to  let  them  kick  you?  Oh, 
Miss  Walton,  how  daring  !" 

"  Not  at  all.  A  horse  is  my  especial  delight.  I 
would  rather  have  one  for  a  pet  than  all  the  dogs, 
cats,  and  birds  in  the  country." 

"And  you  will  drive,  two  in  hand,  this  afternoon?" 

"  Certainly,  if  you  desire  it." 

"  You  don't  know  what  you  are  saying,  but  I  will 
take  you  at  your  word.  Here  comes  April  with  the 
buggy — permit  me  to  hand  you  in." 


52  WAY-MARKS   IN  THE 

"  Let  me  run  in  first,  and  ask  Mrs.  Woodville's 
permission." 

In  a  moment  I  returned.  He  led  me  gallantly 
along,  handed  me  in,  sprang  up  and  seated  himself  at 
my  side.  He  drove  the  horses  to  the  head  of  the 
avenue,  out  of  his  mother's  sight,  and  then,  coming  to 
a  dead  halt,  handed  me  the  reins.  I  had  by  this 
time  seen  enough  of  the  horses  to  make  me  repent  of 
my  temerity.  I  said  I  would  rather  not  drive. 

"  Oh,  hut  you  must,"  said  Octave.  "  It  is  too  late 
to  retract  now.  Come,  take  the  reins." 

I  made  up  my  mind  to  do  any  thing  rather  than  be 
laughed  at.  I  took  the  reins — but  here  a  new  diffi 
culty  arose.  My  hands  were  so  small  that  I  was 
obliged  to  hold  one  rein  in  each  hand.  I  drove  six 
miles  without  stopping.  The  horses  flew  along  before 
the  wind.  They  were  superb  animals — large,  nobly 
built,  iron  gray  in  color,  and  perfectly  symmetrical 
in  shape.  They  had  never  before  submitted  to  any 
hand  but  their  master's,  and  I  felt  it  to  be  a  dan 
gerous  experiment;  but  the  southern  and  western 
horses  are,  like  their  masters,  polite,  generous  and 
kind  to  the  ladies,  and  I  must  confess  the  noble  ani 
mals  treated  me  with  that  courtesy  to  which  I  was 
entitled  as  a  lady,  though  not  as  a  very  proficient 
driver. 

At  the  end  of  the  six  miles,  I  asked  if  I  had  driven 
far  enough  to  prove  my  courage  ? 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER.  53 

"Yes,"  said  Octave,  "when  you  have  driven  back 
again." 

I  looked  appealingly,  but  Octave's  face  expressed 
nothing  but  a  sneer.  I  hesitated  no  longer,  but 
dexterously  turning  round  drove  back  as  rapidly  as 
before.  We  reached  the  inner  gate,  and  throwing 
the  reins  to  April,  I  gave  my  hand  to  Octave  and 
sprang  out.  Never  was  I  more  delighted  to  get  out 
of  a  scrape.  I  ran  through  the  garden  and  up  the 
steps  to  the  portico.  At  the  door  I  met  Mary.  She 
was  just  coming  out.  I  was  struck  with  the  appear 
ance  of  her  face.  It  was  positively  fiendish  in  ex 
pression. 

"  What,"  said  she,  through  her  closed  teeth,  "  back 
so  soon?" 

"  Oh  yes,"  I  replied,  "we  did  not  go  far." 

I  passed  her  and  went  to  my  room,  and  but  for  sub 
sequent  events  I  should  have  forgotten  all  about  it. 
Often  afterwards  I  recalled  the  terrible  expression  I 
read  in  her  countenance,  with  shuddering. 

I  took  off  my  gloves,  and  lo,  what  a  pair  of  hands 
was  there.  Clearly  defined  across  the  soft  white  palms, 
were  two  large,  black  marks.  The  reins  had  bruised 
them  so  much  that  I  was  obliged  to  call  for  salt  and 
water  to  bathe  them.  The  tea^bell  rang  and  I  went 
out  to  supper.  Octave  saluted  me  with  mock  rever 
ence.  I  professed  profound  ignorance  of  his  allusions 
and  manner.  He  said 

"  Just  hear  her  trying  to  make  believe,  by  her  cool, 


54  WAY-MARKS   IN   TIIE 

self-posessed  manner,  that  she  is  not  proud  of  the  feat 
she  accomplished  this  evening." 

"Indeed,"  Miss  Walton,  said  Mrs.  Woodville,  "you 
Northern  ladies  have  a  great  deal  of  courage.  I 
would  not  trust  myself  with  Octave's  horses  for  a 
fortune." 

"  I  shall  think,  after  a  while,  that  I  am  quite  heroic, 
if  you  continue  thus  to  laud  my  courage." 

"  To  be  sure  you  are  brave,"  said  Gregory.  "  Uncle 
John  says  all  kind-hearted  people  are  brave,  and  he 
thinks — " 

"Never  mind  what  I  think,"  interposed  Mr.  Wood 
ville. 

"I'll  tell  her  all  you  think,  the  first  chance  I  get," 
said  Flora,  with  a  gay  laugh. 

"How  do  you  like  riding  on  horseback?"  asked 
Octave. 

"Oh!  very  much,"  I  exclaimed,  and  my  heart 
bounded  with  delight  as  memory  carried  me  back  to 
the  happy  hours  of  childhood,  when  I  had  a  little 
pony  of  my  own,  and  when  a  kind  father's  hand  had 
taught  me  how  to  guide  him. 

"I  wish  you  had  said  so  before,"  remarked  Mrs. 
Woodville,  "I  have  no  doubt  the  exercise  would  do 
you  good,  and  Octave  has  a  very  fine  lady's  horse  in 
the  stable,  that  is  absolutely  getting  ruined  for  want 
.of  use." 

"-Now  do  get  up  early  to-morrow  morning,  Miss 
Walton,"  said  Octave,  "and  let  me  have  the  honor 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER.  55 

of  taking  care  of  you.     I  shall  be  a  most  excellent 
squire." 

"  I  have  no  riding  dress,"  said  I. 

"  There  are  three  or  four  here.     After  tea,  Mary 
shall  bring  them  all  to  you,  to  take  your  choice." 

Shall  I  confess  it,  I  was  childishly  happy  at  the 
thought  of  the  morrow's  ride.  I  began  to  have  an 
Affection  for  Mrs.  Woodville,  notwithstanding  her 
pride.  I  said  to  myself,  she  has  a  kind,  motherly 
heart,  after  all.  She  had  in  a  thousand  ways  tried 
to  impress  upon  me  that  I  was  not  her  equal.  My 
haughty  spirit  would  not  tolerate  this,  and  I  met  her 
pride,  by  an  equally  chilling  hauteur.  I  felt  that  by 
birth,  education  and  conduct,  I  was  her  equal.  I  often 
found  myself  drawing  comparisons  between  her  and  my 
mother,  who  was,  in  my  estimation,  the  beau  ideal  of 
loveliness  and  aimability.  I  do  not  think  it  was  par 
tiality  that  made  me  always  decide  in  favor  of  the 
latter.  She  was  then,  and  ever  will  be,  the  bright  par 
ticular  star  of  my  existence.  Her  example  has  been 
to  me  a  shining  light,  leading  me  on  to  Virtue,  Purity, 
and  Truth.  With  my  whole  heart  I  must  say,  God 
bless  my  mother. 

The  next  morning  I  rose  early,  and  we  started  on 
our  ride.  The  air  was  clear  and  bracing,  and  I  re 
turned  with  rosy  cheeks,  high  spirits,  and  an  appetite 
for  my  breakfast.  I  went  to  school,  and  as  if  to  check 
me  for  being  happy,  Albert  and  Laurestina  both 
behaved  badly,  and  gave  me  considerable  trouble. 


56  WAY-MARKS   IN   T£E 

They  would  not  learn  their  lessons,  and  Laurestina 
was  so  playful,  that  she  frolicked  around  me  like  a 
kitten.  I  could  not  find  it  in  my  heart  to  scold  her. 
Still  I  knew  that  if  I  fulfilled  my  duty  to  her  I  must 
be  strict.  I  was  obliged  to  keep  them  both  in,  and 
Albert,  seeing  I  was  determined  to  be  obeyed,  studied 
his  lesson,  and  came  and  repeated  it  perfectly.  I 
dismissed  him,  and  now  remained  alone  with  Laures 
tina.  I  am  quite  certain  she  regarded  me  in  the 
light  of  an  ogress,  for  she  cried  bitterly,  and  when  I 
went  to  her  to  reason  with  her  on  her  disobedience, 
she  dropped  on  her  knees,  and  commenced  screaming 
with  all  'her  might. 

I  sat  down  beside  her,  and  taking  her  in  my  lap, 
gently  smoothed  back  the  wet,  tangled  curls  from  her 
beautiful  face.  In  a  tone  of  voice  that  was  kind, 
though  perfectly  cool  and  self-possessed,  I  said — 

"I  am  very  sorry  to  see  my  little  Laurestina 
behave  so  naughty.  It  grieves  me  to  the  heart." 

"Let  me  go  home.  Let  me  go  to  my  mother,"  she 
sobbed. 

"I  cannot  do  that,  my  dear  child,  till  you  have 
said  your  lesson.  Only  think  what  an  easy  one  it  is, 
only  just  six  little  words  to  spell." 

"It  is'nt  easy,  its  hard,"  sobbed  the  child.  "I 
can't  learn  it." 

"My  little  Laurestina  must  learn  it,"  I  answered, 
firmly.  "Don't  ever  let  me  hear  this  word,  'can't,' 
from  that  little  mouth  again.  Always  say,  'I'll  try.' 


LIFE   OP   A   WANDERER.  57 

'I'll  try,'  achieves  wonders,  but  'I  can't,'  never  did 
anything  yet.  Now  let  me  hear  you  repeat  your  les 
son.  Come,  I'll  help  you.  R-A-T — rat.  You  know 
what  a  rat  is  ?  There  was  one  tried  to  get  into  the 
safe,  last  night.  Don't  you  remember?" 

Completely  won  over  by  the  firmness  and  kindness 
of  my  manner,  the  child  learnt  her  lesson,  and  in  ten 
minutes  knew  every  word. 

I  then  took  the  opportunity  of  talking  to  her  about 
the  temper  she  had  displayed.  I  told  her  of  her 
mother,  who  was  dead,  and  who  was  an  angel  in 
Heaven.  I  asked  her  how  she  would  like  her  to  look 
down  and  see  her  little  girl  behaving  so  badly.  I 
assured  her  that  it  was  my  belief  that  God  permitted 
the  souls  of  the  just  to  watch  over  those  they  loved 
on  earth,  or  in  other  words,  to  be  their  guardian 
angels.  I  am  aware  this  may  be  objected  to  by  some, 
and  called  a  tradition  of  the  Catholic  church.  I  am 
not  a  Catholic,  but  I  think  many  of  their  rites  and 
traditions  are  beautiful,  and  I  do  not  think  we  have 
any  right,  as  Christians,  to  condemn  any  person  on 
account  of  the  peculiar  tenets  of  their  faith.  I  have, 
in  New  Orleans  and  St.  Louis,  made  the  acquaintance 
of  so  many  liberal-minded,  noble-hearted  Catholics, 
that  every  vestige  of  prejudice  has  faded  from  my 
mind.  Let  us  have  charity  with  all  men,  and  remem 
ber  that  it  is  neither  Catholic  nor  Protestant  as  such 
that  will  gain  entrance  to  Heaven.  The  crystal 


58  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

gates  will  open  wide  to  the  name  of  Christian,  and 
sect  and  tenet  will  be  alike  forgotten. 

Pardon  me  if  I  digress  a  little  here,  to  speak  of 
that  excellent  man,  that  benefactor  of  the  human 
race;  that  noble  being,  whose  whole  life  has  been  a 
sacrifice  to  the  God  who  gave  it,  Father  Matthew. 
Life  would  be  well  worth  having  when  blessed  with 
such  fruition  as  has  crowned  his  labors.  Upon  his 
face  God  has  written  his  approval.  A  short  time 
ago  I  heard  him  lecture  to  a  crowd  of  some  thousands 
of  people.  The  sight  of  this  man,  so  forgetful  of 
self,  so  devoted  to  the  good  of  others,  so  mild  and 
gentle  to  the  little  children  who  crowded  round  him, 
made  a  deep  impression  upon  my  mind,  and  created 
anew  the  longing  I  had  experienced  in  earlier  years, 
when  I  read  the  story  of  the  noble  philanthropist, 
whose  memory  is  indelibly  associated  with  the  Hos 
pice  of  St.  Bernard.  Ah,  thought  I,  would  to  God  I 
might  win  a  crown  of  such  laurels.  I  shall  not  then 
have  lived  and  died  in  vain. 

Laurestina  was  deebly  impressed  with  what  I  told 
her.  She  seemed  to  feel  a  sort  of  shame  (if  I  may  so 
express  it)  at  the  thought  of  her  mother  being  a  wit 
ness  to  her  bad  behaviour.  I  have  reason  to  think 
she  still  remembers  what  I  told  her. 

Now,  one  word  in  reference  to  the  management  of 
children.  How  many  are  there  who  while  that  child 
was  screaming  with  passion,  would  have  taken  a  whip, 


LIFE    OF   A    WANDERER.  59 

and  goaded  her  already  highly  excited  feelings  to 
madness.  What  permanant  good  can  be  effected  by 
this  sort  of  punishment  ?  Does  it  convince  the  judg 
ment  ?  Does  it  reach  the  heart  ?  Does  it  influence 
for  good  the  after-life  of  the  child?  I  think  not. 
Better,  far  better  is  it  to  win  your  way,  slowly,  firm 
ly  and  kindly,  by  influencing  the  affections,  and  con 
vincing  the  judgment  of  the  child,  that  the  end  you 
seek  is  its  own  individual  good, — that  it  must  either 
bow  in  submission  to  your  will,  or  seal  its  own  unhap- 
piness.  Tis  true  there  are  times,  particularly  with 
boys,  when  a  little  wholesome  whipping  may  be  advis 
able,  but  the  punishment  should  be  inflicted  some 
hours,  or  even  days,  after  the  commission  of  the  crime. 
The  temper  should  cool.  The  child  should  be  made  to 
feel  that  you  are  grieved  to  be  compelled  to  punish. 
That  it  is  indeed  drinking  a  bitter  cup  yourself, 
to  be  forced  to  inflict  pain  upon  your  child.  In  this 
solemn  manner  you  make  an  impression  upon  the 
better  feelings,  which  in  the  young  are  always  tender 
and  easily  moved.  The  heart  of  childhood  is  indeed 
the  ductile  wax  in  the  hands  of  the  moulder,  and  wo 
be  to  them  who  distort  it,  and  warp  it  to  evil.  How 
much  misery  might  be  avoided,  how  much  good  might 
spring  up  where  now  is  no  redeeming  trait,  if  love 
and  gentleness  had  trained  up  children,  instead  of 
harshness  and  cruelty ;  and  how  many  poor,  lost  souls, 
forsaken  by  all  the  world,  steeped  in  disgrace  and 
shame,  loathsome  even  to  themselves,  might  be  saved, 


60  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

might  be  redeemed,  if  some  pure  being  would  stretch 
forth  the  hand  of  friendship,  and  cover  with  the  mantle 
of  charity  their  many  faults;  speak  soothing  words  of 
pity  and  encouragement,  and  give  them  not  only 
bibles  and  tracts,  but  bread,  to  sustain  their  miser 
able  lives. 

I  heard,  not  very  long  ago,  the  eloquent  and  far- 
famed  Mr.  Wadsworth,  of  Troy,  preach  a  sermon  for 
the  Home  Missionary  Society  of  Philadelphia.  It  was 
indeed  a  masterly  effort.  He  painted  true  charity  in 
vivid  coloring.  He  asked  what  was  the  use  of  bibles 
and  tracts  and  religious  advice  if  you  did  not  act  up 
to  the  precepts  you  inculcated  ?  He  related  an  instance 
that  had  come  before  the  board.  A  poor,  blind  man 
lived  with  his  brother  and  sister-in-law  in  a  wretched 
hovel.  The  brother  got  sick,  and  it  was  to  his  efforts 
the  family  looked  for  support.  They  were  all  old 
people,  and  one  after  another  every  article  of  furni 
ture  was  sold,  to  obtain  bread  to  keep  them  from  starv 
ing.  The  blind  man  was  an  infidel.  An  open  re- 
viler  of  the  bible,  of  Christians,  and  of  the  church  of 
God.  By  and  by  winter  came  on  in  all  its  severity. 
The  cold  blasts  pierced  through  and  through  the  home 
and  hearts  of  the  suffering  family.  Some  benevolent 
person  made  their  case  known  to  the  Society.  That 
excellent  man,  Mr.  Street,  went  to  see  them.  It  was  a 
spectacle  that  touched  his  heart.  He  spoke  soothing 
words,  and  left  them  to  fulfil  his  errand  of  mercy. 
He  sent  them  beds  to  sleep  upon,  fire  to  keep  them 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER.  61 

warm,  groceries  and  provisions  to  satisfy  the  cravings 
of  hunger,  and  various  little  articles  of  comfort  and 
necessity,  too  numerous  to  mention.  Then  he  went 
to  see  them  again,  this  time  taking  with  him  a 
bible  and  some  tracts.  "  Who  are  you,"  asked  the 
blind  man,  "  that  has  done  so  much  for  us  ?  Why 
have  you  given  us  all  these  things?"  "For  the  love 
of  Christ,  whom  I  worship,"  said  Mr.  Street.  "  In 
his  name  we,  who  are  His  humble  followers,  seek  out 
the  poor  and  needy,  and  relieve  their  wants.  It  was 
the  work  He  gave  us  to  do,  for  when  He  was  on 
earth,  He  went  about  doing  good.  Here  is  a  bible 
that  will  tell  you  of  His  boundless  love  for  poor  sin 
ners.  Shall  I  read  it  to  you?" 

"  Oh  yes,  read,  read.  There  must  be  something  in 
this  religion,  that  makes  you  so  good  to  the  poor  and 
wretched,  from  whom  you  can  expect  no  sort  of  re 
compense." 

The  blind  man  was  converted.  Thus  an  immortal 
soul  was  gathered  to  the  fold  of  Christ,  that  would 
otherwise  have  been  forever  lost.  "Ah,"  said  Mr.  W. 
"  there  is  something  sublime  and  noble  in  this  union  of 
bibles  and  bread,  tracts  and  firewood."  And  there  is 
a  sublimity  in  it,  for  it  is  the  union  of  the  two  great 
fundamental  principles  of  the  Christian  religion,  faith 
and  good  works.  Try  as  you  will,  you  can  never  sepa 
rate  them  with  good  to  yourself,  and  with  a  lively 
faith  you  will  be  certain  to  abound  in  good  works. 
This  world  is  passing  away.  Soon,  very  soon,  we 
6* 


62  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

shall  be  called  upon  to  leave  alike  its  joys  and  sor 
rows.  Oh  let  us  try  to  do  all  the  good  we  can.  If 
we  can  bring  joy  to  one  sorrowing  heart,  if  we  can  save 
one  misguided  soul  from  ruin,  if  we  can  plant  even  one 
seed  that  may  spring  up  and  bloom  in  Paradise,  oh ! 
let  us  labor  while  we  may,  and  strive  hard  to  culti 
vate  all  the  gentler  feelings  of  our  nature,  that  we 
may  become  more  and  more  like  the  shining  example 
of  our  most  blessed  Lord  and  Saviour.  How  much 
more  quietly  we  shall  lie  down  upon  our  bed  of  death : 
'How  much  more  easily  will  the  gates  of  Heaven 
unclose  at  our  approach. 

Time  passed  on,  and  nature's  roses  bloomed  once 
more  on  my  cheeks.  I  rode  out  on  horseback  every 
day  with  Octave,  and  he  was  as  kind  and  attentive  as 
I  could  have  expected  a  brother  to  be.  I  felt  grate 
ful  to  him,  and  began  to  love  his  mother  more  and 
more.  She  was  so  happy  when  I  was  pleased,  and 
seemed  to  delight  in  seeing  me  gay  and  cheerful. 

One  day,  as  we  rode  slowly  along  a  winding  path, 
Octave  said  to  me, 

"Miss  Walton,  you  have  entirely  won  my 
mother's  heart.  She  acknowledges  that  you  have 
completely  eradicated  her  prejudices  against  the 
Northerners." 

"It  makes  me  happy  to  hear  it,"  I  replied. 

"  Do  you  think  you  could  content  yourself  to  stay 
here  a  year,  without  going  home  to  see  your  family?" 


LIFE    OF   A   WANDERER.  t)3 

"I  don't  know.  If  I  cannot  get  away,  I  must  try 
to  make  a  virtue  of  necessity.  I  will  strive  hard  for 
contentment." 

"I  will  do  all  I  can  to  make  you  happy,"  he  said. 

"Indeed,  you  always  have  done  that,  ever  since  I 
came  here,  and  I  assure  you  I  am  not  ungrateful  for 
all  your  many  acts  of  kindness  and  atention." 

"It  is  not  gratitude  I  ask  from  your  heart,"  he 
said. 

I  looked  at  him -quite  puzzled.  Love,  with  all  its 
enigmas,  its  hopes  and  fears,  was  as  yet  a  sealed  book 
to  me ;  nor  had  I  yet  seen  the  person  who  could  unfold 
its  mysteries  to  me.  It  was  surely  not  Octave  Wood- 
ville.  He  had  inspired  me,  from  the  first  moment 
of  our  acquaintance,  with  distrust.  I  did  not  know 
then  that  he  loved  me,  but  I  do  now.  He,  the  petted, 
courted  child  of  fortune,  the  heir  to  an  immense  es 
tate,  loved  the  poor,  portionless  Northerner,  the  hired 
teacher  of  his  sister's  children.  Yes,  loved  her  with 
an  honorable  passion,  and  would  have  deemed  that, 
the  proudest  moment  of  his  life  in  which  he  could  have 
called  her  wife. 

We  had  reached  the  top  of  a  hill  that  overlooked 
the  country,  far  and  near.  The  prospect  was  charm 
ing.  "Come,"  said  I,  "let's  have  a  gallop  over  this 
lovely  plain,"  and  starting  off,  I  soon  left  him  far 
behind.  When  he  caught  up  to  me,  the  moon  was 
shining,  and  the  quiet  stars  looked  down  upon  me,  and 
warned  me  of  the  coming  night. 


G4  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

"I  never  dreamed  it  was  so  late,  did  you?"  I  asked. 

"No,  little  flatterer,  who  would  think  of  time  in  your 
company." 

"  Oh,  let  us  return.  I  am  so  frightened.  How  far 
are  we  from  home?" 

"Seven  miles." 

"  You  are  jesting?" 

"That  is  Carrol's  place  to  the  right." 

"Is  it  possible?  Well,  indeed,  I  would  not  have 
believed  it." 

We  cantered  briskly  home.  As  usual,  Mary  met  us 
on  the  porch.  Her  eyes  gleamed  wildly,  and  the  old 
expression  was  on  her  face,  as  she  said  in  a  hissing 
tone, 

"Old  missus  has  been  so  scared  about  you." 

"Did  she  think  we  had  run  off?"  asked  Octave,  with 
a  gay  laugh. 

Mary  muttered  something  that  I  did  not  hear.  I 
passed  on,  and  was  going  to  my  room,  when  something, 
I  know  not  what,  induced  me  to  turn.  Octave  still 
stood  on  the  porch,  and,  could  it  be  true  ?  yes,  it  was ; 
I  surely  saw  it  with  my  own  eyes ;  Mary,  the  pretty 
yellow  slave,  stood  before  him,  and  her  arms  were 
thrown  wildly  around  him.  Her  head  rested  on  his 
shoulder.  I  was  amazed.  I  knew  not  what  to  think, 
but  I  had  sense  enough  to  hasten  away  before  they 
saw  me. 

As  soon  as  I  had  laid  off  my  riding  habit,  I  went 
down  to  supper.  I  advanced  to  Mrs.  Woodville  and 
said, 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER.  65 

"  Pardon  me,  dear  madam,  for  keeping  you  waiting 
so  long.  I  will  never  do  so  again.  Indeed  the  time 
passed  so  rapidly,  that  it  was  night  before  I  was 
aware  of  it." 

She  looked  at  me  fixedly  for  a  moment,  and  then 
said,  grasping  my  hand  as  she  spoke, 

"You  are  perfectly  excusable,  my  child,  and  if 
ever  truth  and  innocence  were  written  on  a  human 
face,  I  read  it  here.  You  have  no  apology  to  offer, 
my  dear  Marcia,  if  you  will  permit  me  to  call  you  so." 

"Oh  do,"  said  I,  delighted,  "that  will  make  me 
think  I  am  home  once  more." 

"  And  shall  I  have  the  privilege  too  ?"  asked  Mr. 
Woodville,  smiling  pensively. 

"  Certainly,  if  you  wish  it,"  I  replied. 

"  Well,  then,  to  begin  at  once,  Marcia,  will  you  per 
mit  me?"  and  he  handed  me  to  the  table. 

"  I  want  to'  call  you  Marcia,  too,"  said  Laurestina. 

"And  I,"  "and  I,"  "and  I,"  chimed  in  all  the 
others. 

"  Oh  we  cannot  permit  that,"  said  Mrs.  "Woodville. 
"  If  we  do,  we  shall  have  no  order  at  school." 

"  I  would  obey  Marcia  as  quickly  as  I  would  Miss 
Walton,"  said  Flora,  pouting. 

"Well,"  said  I,  "  we  will  make  a  compromise.  In 
school  I  will  be  Miss  Walton.  Out  of  it,  if  you  are 
good  children,  I  will  be  Marcia  to  you  all." 

"Oh,  I  am  so  glad,"  said  Laurestina.  "Marcia, 
please  hand  me  the  biscuit." 


6G  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

"I  like  it  too,"  said  Gregory.  "Did  you  have  a 
pleasant  ride,  Marcia?" 

"Very  pleasant,  thank  you." 

"  Come  children,  eat  more  and  talk  less,"  said  Mrs. 
Woodville*  "  Octave,  what  ails  you.  You  don't  eat 
any  supper?" 

"I  don't  feel  hungry." 

"Are  you  sick?" 

"No.  Yes.  I  have  a  slight  head-ache."  He 
leaned  his  head  on  his  hand.  Was  he  angry  that  of 
all  that  family  party,  he  alone  was  excluded  from  the 
privilege  of  calling  me  by  my  first  name  ?  So  Mr. 
Woodville  seemed  to  think,  for  he  said, 

"  How  now,  boy ;  you  want  to  say  Marcia,  too,  do 
you  ?  Ten  to  one  you  think  it  a  very  pretty  name." 

He  raised  his  eyes,  and  gave  his  uncle  a  look  not 
easily  forgotten.  In  an  instant  it  was  gone,  and 
without  answering  the  question  Mr.  Woodville  had 
addressed  to  him,  he  said  to  his  mother,  in  a  gay 
tone, 

"  I  am  not  hungry  and  don't  want  any  supper,  but 
after  a  while,  Miss  Walton  may,  if  she  pleases,  make 
us  some  egg-nog.  I  am  just  in  the  humor  of  drink 
ing  and  making  merry." 

"  Will  you  oblige  Octave  ?"  said  his  mother  to  me. 

"  Certainly,  if  you  desire  it,"  I  replied. 

At  nine  o'clock  the  egg-nog  was  made.  I  served 
it  out,  and  Jacob  carried  it  round.  I  had  never  been 
partial  to  the  taste  of  brandy,  and  soon  sat  down 


LIFE    OF    A   WANDERER.  67 

my  glass.  Octave  advanced  towards  me.  He  took 
up  my  tumbler,  and  holding  it  up  to  the  light,  turned 
it  round  till  he  came  to  the  spot  which  my  lips  had 
touched.  He  raised  it  to  his  mouth,  kissed  it  and 
drained  its  contents.  No  one  saw  the  movement  save 
myself,  and  a  pair  of  lustrous  black  eyes,  that  leered 
at  him  from  the  corner  of  the  room.  It  was  Mary, 
who  sat  there  at  a  little  work-table  mending  some 
clothes  for  the  children.  Oh  what  a  look  she  gave  me. 
I  shuddered  in  spite  of  myself,  and  turned  away  my 
head.  For  the  first  time  I  felt  a  restraint  in  Octave's 
presence.  I  did  not  interpret  his  kissing  the  glass  in 
any  way  but  as  a  little  harmless  flattery,  but  I  felt 
annoyed  and  unusually  depressed,  and  I  resolved  to 
retire  to  my  room  at  once,  and  gain  in  solitude  that 
quiet  which  was  necessary  to  the  restoration  of  my 
health.  But  my  head  pressed  a  sleepless  pillow.  A 
presentiment  of  evil  hung  over  me  and  darkened  my 
spirits.  The  large  brilliant  black  eyes  of  the  pretty 
yellow  slave,  haunted  my  imagination,  and  pursued 
me  in  my  dreams.  It  was  near  morning  when  I 
slept,  and  the  breakfast  bell  rang  without  my  hearing 
it. 

Somebody  tapped  at  my  door.  I  arose  and  open 
ed  it.  Flora  stood  there,  and  I  told  her  to  come  in. 
She  held  in  her  hand  a  superb  boquet  of  flowers. 
She  said, 

"  See  what  uncle  Octave  has  sent  you.  He  was 
up  before  day,  and  rode  five  miles  to  Dayne's  green 
house,  to  get  you  these  flowers." 


68  WAY-MARKS  IN   THE 

"How  very  kind,"  I  exclaimed,  taking  them,  and 
inhaling  their  fragrance.  I  then  placed  them  in  a 
vase  of  fresh  water. 

"Did  you  know  breakfast  was  waiting?"  asked 
Flora. 

"  Certainly  not,  can  it  he  possible  ?" 

"It  is,  indeed,  and  you  have  not  commenced  to 
dress  yourself  yet." 

"Never  mind.  Sit  still,  and  you  shall  see  how 
soon  I  will  be  ready." 

In  a  few  moments  I  accompanied  Flora  to  the 
dining  room,  where  the  family  were  already  seated  at 
breakfast.  I  looked  at  Octave  to  thank  him  for  his 
gift,  and  was  struck  by  the  pallor  of  his  face. 

"  Are  you  sick  ?"  I  asked. 

"  I  only  have  a  head-ache." 

"There,"  said  Mrs.  Woodville,  "I  knew  it.  I  saw 
last  night  it  was  coming  on ;  and  that  ride  this  mor 
ning  did  you  no  good."  She  looked  at  me  with  a 
reproachful  air. 

"An  early  ride  has  often  cured  me  before." 

"Yes,  but  not  on  a  damp,  heavy  morning,  like 
this." 

Octave  rose  from  the  table  and  went  to  his  room. 
The  meal  passed  in  silence,  and  soon  after  we  left  for 
school.  At  dinner  time  I  did  not  see  Octave,  and  as 
his  name  was  not  mentioned  I  did  not  inquire  about 
him.  I  remained  in  the  school  room  that  night,  till 
nearly  dark,  busily  engaged  at  my  French  exercises. 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER.  69 

I  was  indeed  so  entirely  engrossed,  that  I  took  no 
note  of  the  flight  of  time. 

Some  one  tapped  at  the  door,  and  I  bade  him 
enter. 

Mr.  Woodville  came  in  and  said, 

"Really,  Marcia,  this  will  not  do.  I  am  afraid 
some  accident  will  happen  to  you  here.  Are  you  not 
aware  there  are  many  runaway  negroes  in  the  woods, 
prowling  about  ?  Men  who  would  not  hesitate  at  any 
crime,  not  even  murder." 

"I  never  thought  of  that,"  said  I,  shuddering. 
"  It  seemed  to  me  I  was  removed  from  all  the  danger 
so  common  in  great  cities." 

I  was  very  soon  ready  to  accompany  Mr.  Wood 
ville  up  to  the  house.  I  went  to  my  room,  took  off 
my  bonnet,  and  came  out  to  supper.  Octave  was 
there,  lying  on  the  sofa.  He  was  as  white  as  death. 
He  fixed  his  eyes  upon  me  with  a  sad  expression,  and 
I  asked  him  how  he  felt. 

"  Better,"  was  his  only  word  of  answer. 

After  eating  my  supper,  I  brought  out  my  work 
basket  and  sat  down  to  my  sewing.  Octave  said, 

"Miss  Walton,  shall  I  trouble  you  to  bathe  my 
head  ?  I  can  get  no  relief  from  this  intolerable  pain 
in  any  other  way." 

"  I  shall  consider  it  a  pleasure  rather  than  a  trouble, 
if  I  can  do  aught  to  soothe  you." 

I  got  cold  water  and  bathed  his  throbbing  temples 
and  fevered  brow.     I  nursed  him  as  a  sister  might 
7 


70  WAY-MARKS  IN   THE 

have  waited  on  a  brother,  and  I  ain  very  sure  no  feel 
ing  entered  my  heart  but  pity,  such  as  an  angel 
might  have  felt. 

"Does  that  relieve  you?"  I  asked,  bending  over 
him. 

"Oh,  very  much,"  he  replied.  "Are  you  tired? 
Do  not  leave  me  without  you  are." 

"  Certainly  not,  if  it  affords  you  any  gratification 
for  me  to  stay." 

Ten  o'clock  came.  Mrs.  "Woodville  begged  Octave 
to  permit  Mary  to  bathe  his  head.  She  pleaded  that 
I  must  be  tired. 

"I  don't  want  Mary  to  come  near  me,"  he  said, 
crossly.  "  Then  asked  me,  gently,  "  Are  you  tired, 
though  ?" 

"Not  much,"  I  replied.  "I  am  used  to  waiting 
on  the  sick.  Mother  thinks  me  quite  a  good  nurse." 

"  Well,  I  must  not  forget  in  my  selfishness  that 
you  are  not  much  more  than  an  invalid  yourself. 
Go,  now,  and  get  a  good  night's  rest.  I  shall  be  well 
to-morrow,  for  there  is  a  charm  in  the  touch  of  your 
fingers.  I  am  better  than  I  have  been  all  day." 

"  I  shall  retire  then  in  the  hope  of  seeing  you  quite 
recovered  in  the  morning.  Bon-soir." 

And  away  I  went  to  my  neat  little  room,  to  lay 
my  head  down  for  the  last  time  on  my  pillow,  ere  the 
crisis  of  my  life  had  arrived.  One  scene  of  the  drama 
had  been  acted,  and  the  curtain  was  now  falling, 
which  would  separate,  with  an  iron  land-mark  the 


LIFE   OF   A  WANDERER.  71 

Past  and  Present.  God  alone  knows  why  such  things 
are  permitted.  We  feel  them,  we  suffer,  yet  remain 
in  ignorance  of  their  use ;  but  God  knows  best,  and  I 
will  not  repine.  With  a  cheek  blooming  with  health, 
a  heart  rich  in  all  the  gilded  visions  of  Hope,  and  a 
soul  pure  and  uncontaminated  by  evil,  and  devoted  to 
God,  I  laid  down  to  sleep,  the  last  sweet  dreamless  rest 
of  a  happy  childhood.  . 

I  awoke,  to  what?     You  shall  learn  it  in  another 
chapter. 


CHAPTER  V. 

"  Oh,  turn  away  those  rigid  eyes ! 

My  heart  hath  frozen  'neath  their  spell; 
Such  looks  are  not  the  meet  replies 
To  one  who  loveth  thec  so  well. 

One  smile — ah,  one  frank  tender  smile, 
Were  than  a  thousand  gems  more  dear, 

If  it  but  told  my  heart  tho,  while, 

That  I  had  power  thy  thoughts  to  cheer.'' 

I  know  not  to  what  to  attribute  my  depression  this 
morning.  There  is  a  weight  on  my  spirits.  There  is 
sorrow  at  my  heart.  I  feel  the  invisible  presence  of 
something  that  I  fear  and  dread.  I  will  go  forth  and 
inhale  the  fresh  dewy  air  of  the  morning.  It  may 
•  bring  calm  and  quiet  to  my  fevered  brow. 


72  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

Well,  out  I  go.  I  choose  this  morning  the  walk  at 
the  back  of  the  house ;  and  I  slowly  descend  the  hill 
till  I  reach  the  little  stream  at  its  base.  I  wander 
along  its  verdant  margin,  stooping  now  and  then  to 
gather  the  modest  violets  that  peep  forth  from  the 
turf.  Oh,  what  a  lovely  day !  The  air  is  mild  and 
balmy;  and  the  ever-green  woods  around  me,  declare 
me  to  be  in  a  land  where  reigns  an  eternal  summer. 
The  birds  merrily  warble  their  hymns  of  love  and 
gratitude.  All  nature  seems  to  rejoice,  and  I  ask 
myself,  "  Why  art  thou,  of  all  the  gay  things  around 
thee,  unhappy?  Oh,  daughter  of  earth,  why  dost 
thou  suffer  aught  to  come  between  thee  and  the  love 
of  the  Infinite?" 

Suddenly,  a  voice  interrupted  my  musings.  It  was 
Octave's.  He  said — 

"  Am  I  not  a  true  prophet  ?  I  told  you  I  would 
be  well  this  morning.  Lo,  the  morning  is  here,  and  I 
surely  never  felt  better  in  my  life." 

"  I  am  happy  to  hear  it." 

"  And  yet,  to  tell  the  truth,  you  do  not  look  very 
happy.  What  ails  -you,  Miss  Walton?  Have  you 
any  cause  for  trouble?" 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  had  never  more  cause  for  joy. 
My  health  is  returning,  and  I  feel  strong  and  hearty. 
Indeed,  nothing  is  the  matter  with  me,  save  some 
imaginary  nonsense." 

"  Pray,  tell  me,  what  sickly  fancies  have  been  dis 
turbing  you?  Perchance  I  may  cure  them." 


LIFE   OP   A  WANDERER.  73 

"  They  would  be  beyond  your  reach,  for  I  do  not 
know  what  they  are  myself?" 

"  Well,  we  will  banish  them,  then.  Let  us  talk  of 
something  else." 

"Certainly,  if  you  desire  it." 

"  Are  you  fond  of  flowers  ?" 

"  Passionately." 

"  Come,  sit  down  here  at  the  foot  of  this  tree.  I 
had  this  bench  placed  here  for  my  own  accommoda 
tion.  I  little  dreamed,  in  those  days,  that  a  fair 
Northerner  would  ever  grace  it  with  her  presence." 

"  Is  this  a  favorite  spot  of  yours  ?" 

"  It  is,  indeed.  I  spend  many  happy,  and  many 
miserable  hours  here.  Now,  come,  answer  me  a  ques 
tion.  Can  you  read  the  language  of  flowers  ?" 

"Perfectly  well." 

"  Do  you  remember  the  interpretation  of  the  boquet 
I  sent  you  yesterday  ?" 

"  Indeed,  I  do  not.     I  never  stopt  to  think." 

"  There  was  keliatrope — what  does  that  mean?" 

"Devotion." 

"  There  were  many  violets." 

"  Violets  are  interpreted  faithfulness." 

"  The  sweet  blue-bell  was  there." 

"  Oh  yes,  that  means  constancy." 

"  There  was  the  fragrant,  lovely  rose-bud." 

"  Come,  come.  I  have  no  notion  of  being  turned 
into  a  botanical  dictionary.  If  you  wish  to  become 

versed  in  the  floral  world,  get  a  book  and  apply  your- 

7* 


74  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

self  diligently,"  said  I,  laughing.  Octave  said,  se 
riously — 

"  I  did  not  ask  you  these  questions  on  account  of 
my  ignorance,  Miss  Walton.  Far  from  it.  I  had 
these  flowers  selected  with  great  care,  that  you  might 
read  in  them  what  my  lips  so  longed  to  speak,  but 
dared  not.  Sweet  Marcia,  you  have  awakened  in  my 
breast  emotions  so  overpowering  that  I  am  no  longer 
master  of  myself.  I  am  completely  entranced  and 
spell-bound,  and  I  feel  that  I  only  live  in  your  pre 
sence.  I  have  struggled  against  this  passion,  well 
knowing  that  it  would  meet  my  mother's  disapproba 
tion  ;  and  I  have  watched  you  closely,  but  have  never 
yet  received  one  word  or  look  of  encouragement  from 
you.  Dearly^  loved  girl,  speak  that  word,  look  that 
one  look  of  affection  now,  to  reward  me  for  my  love. 
Nay,  do  not  turn  away  your  head.  Take  time  to  con 
sider  before  you  repulse  me.  My  heart  is  wholly 
yours.  I  offer  you  now  my  hand,  and  my  fortune 
would  be  valueless  if  not  shared  with  you.  Why  do 
you  rise?  Why  do  you  look  at  me  so  strange  and 
cold  ?  Am  I  then  deceived  in  you  ?  Are  you  heart 
less?  Are  you  without  pity  for  one  who  loves  you 
with  such  wild  devotion  as  mine  ?" 

"Indeed,  Mr.  Woodville,  I  cannot  find  words  to 
express  to  you  my  surprise.  I  never  dreamed  of  this. 
I  have  the  kindliest  feelings  for  you,  but  if,  by  any 
action  of  mine,  you  have  been  led  to  believe  that  I 
anticipated  this  avowal  on  your  part,  I  humbly  beg 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER.  75 

your  pardon.  I  never  loved  any  one  enough  to  wish 
to  be  married  to  him,  and  I  always  thought  that  you 
were  engaged  to  be  married  to  Mary  Jones.  I  knew 
there  was  some  slight  difference  between  you,  but  I 
supposed  it  to  be  some  trifling  lovers'  quarrel.  You 
have  been  very  kind  to  me,  but  I  attributed  it  to  the 
kindness  of  your  heart.  I  am  poor  and  lonely,  far 
from  my  home  and  friends,  and  oft  times  very  sad.  I 
fancied  that  you  knew  all  this,  and  that  the  generosity 
of  your  nature  induced  you  to  offer  me  attentions  to 
lighten  my  load  of  sorrow — attentions  which  I  should 
have  blushed  to  receive,  had  I  imagined  them  prompt 
ed  by  any  other  feeling.  Pardon  me,  if  under  the 
influence  of  gratitude  I  have  for  one  moment  seemed 
other  than  I  am.  I  shall  ever  esteem  you  highly,  but 
your  wife  I  can  never  be.  I  speak  firmly  and  deci 
dedly,  for  my  mind  is  fixed,  and  I  need  no  time  to 
think  about  it.  Let  us  return  to  the  house." 

"  Oh,  Marcia,  I  entreat  you  not  to  go  yet.  Stay 
one  moment.  Let  me  implore  you  to  think  over  my 
offer.  At  least  give  me  some  better  reason  for  your 
refusal.  Is  there  not  some  one  who  possesses  the 
treasure  of  your  virgin  heart  ?" 

"Do  you  wish  to  insult  me,  sir?  If  I  was  loved, 
it  should  be  no  hidden  thing.  I  would  accept  no  love 
it  was  necessary  to  hide.  I  left  the  school-room,  and 
my  mother's  bosom,  to  come  to  your  house.  I  am 
but  just  eighteen,  and  my  mother  educated  me  to  con 
sider  myself  still  a  child  at  that  age.  It  is  not  neces- 


76  WAY-MARKS   IN  THE 

sary  to  pursue  this  subject  farther.  I  have  frankly 
told  you  the  truth,  and  it  is  useless  for  you  to  suppose 
that  time  can  change  my  feelings  in  the  least." 

A  slight  rustling  in  the  woods  here  attracted  my 
attention.  Octave  said  it  was  nothing.  I  walked 
towards  the  house.  He  insisted  on  walking  with  me, 
though  I  would  much  rather  have  dispensed  with  his 
company.  In  a  few  moments  we  met  Flora  and 
Mr.  Woodville  coming  towards  us.  Flora's  eyes  were 
bright,  and  her  cheeks  were  rosy  with  health.  Mr. 
Woodville  said  to  me — 

"  Well,  Marcia,  you  are  taking  your  early  walk,  I 
see ;  but  you  look  pale.  Come  here,  and  lean  on  an 
old  man's  arm.  It  is  an  arm  that  would  gladly  shield 
you  from  all  t!ie'  evil  this  world  has  in  store  for  you. 
Flora,  do  you  trip  on  before  with  your  uncle  Octave. 
Oh,  you  must  have  your  kiss  before  you  go,  aye.  If  I 
was  Miss  Walton,  I  would  not  permit  it." 

I  asked — 

"  Why  do  you  think,  Mr.  Woodville,  that  this  world 
has  evil  in  store  for  me?" 

"It  is  the  lot  of  all  mortals,  my  dear  child.  God 
has  placed  us  here  to  prepare  for  another  and  happier 
state  <j£  being,  and  it  is  to  be  feared  that  the  fiffections 
of  our  weak  and  sinful  natures  would  bind  us  irre 
trievably  to  earth,  if  sorrow  and  trouble  were  not  our 
portion,  and  if  we  found  this  world  aught  else  but  a 
vale  of  tears." 

"  But  why,  I  have  often  asked  myself,  did  God  per- 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER.  77 

mit  sin  to  come  into  the  world?  He  is  certainly 
omniscient,  and  He  knew  that  sin  was  the  parent  of 
sorrow  and  death." 

"What  merit  would  there  be  in  doing  well,  in 
living  a  holy  life,  if  there  were  no  inducements,  no 
temptations  to  act  otherwise  ?  That  man  would 
achieve  no  victory  who  had  no  foe  to  vanquish.  And 
again,  how  many  virtues  are  there,  that  but  for  the 
opposing  influence  of  sin,  would  sleep  in  embryo  ? 
^^  •  We  should  not  question  whatever  there  is  of  mystery 
in  the  works  of  God,  but  bow  submissively  to  His 
Avill,  in  the  full  confidence  that  He  knows  what  is  best 

%for  us.  Our  finite  minds  cannot  comprehend  the 
wonders  of  His  love,  and  we  must  not  expect,  in  this 
vale  of  tears,  to  pierce  the  impenetrable" mystery  with 
which  His  works  are  surrounded." 

"Ah,  believe  me,  my  dear  friend,  I  do  not  lack 
that  faith  and  confidence  of  which  you  speak.  I  know 
full  well  that  all  God  does  is  for  the  best,  although  it 
may  seem  hard  to  me,  and  the  questions  I  have  asked 
myself,  have  been  rather  the  inquisitive  promptings 
of  an  inquiring  mind,  than  any  actual  doubt  of 
the  wisdom  and  beneficence  of  God.  I  have  often 
sought  to  make  clear  all  the  mysteries  of  religion  to 
my  own  mind,  in  order  that  I  might  the  better  ex 
plain  it  to  my  pupils,  and  I  have  been  more  especially 
interested  in  this,  on  account  of  having  been,  since 
my  fourteenth  year,  a  teacher  in  a  Sabbath  school." 

"  This  is  a  laudable  feeling,  in  some  respects,  my 


78  WAY-MAKES   IN   THE 

dear  child,  4>ut  I  would  advise  you  to  go  no  farther 
than  God  his  revealed  Himself  to  you  in  His  Holy 
Word.  Study  faithfully  and  patiently  all  you  find 
there,  and  your  soul  will  then  be  fitted  to  enjoy  the 
happiness  which  shall  be  yours,  in  that  Land  of  Pro 
mise  God  has  prepared  for  His  children." 

"Ah,  my  friend,  now  we  have  gained  a  point  that 
has  often  caused  me  great  trouble,  for  I  fear  I  shall 
never  reach  that  happy  land  of  which  you  speak. 
My  heart  clings  to  earth  and  sin,  in  its  many  thousand 
forms,  allures  my  wandering  footsteps.  My  spirit 
indeed  is  willing,  but  the  flesh  is  weak,  and  to  be 
worthy  of  that  blessed  recompense,  is  to  be  far  more 
holy,  more  earnest  and  more  faithful,  than  I  ever  can 
be." 

"Nay,  but  you  must  not  say  so,  Marcia.  I  too 
have  often  had  my  fears  that  I  could  never  suffi 
ciently  overcome  the  weaknesses  that  flesh  is  heir  to, 
to  inherit  eternal  life.  When  I  was  a  young  man, 
about  the  age  Octave  is  now,  I  was  engaged  to  be 
married  to  one  of  the  loveliest  girls  in  Georgia.  She 
was  fair  as  you,  Marcia,  and  I  loved  her  as  man  can 
never  love  but  once.  She  was  entwined  about  my 
heart  strings,  and  day  and  night  I  thought  and 
dreamed  about  her,  cherishing  the  fondest  visions  of 
future  happiness  in  the  possession  of  so  peerless  a 
wife.  I  left  her  and  went  forth  to  battle  with  my 
country's  foes,  for  the  freedom  which  seems  the  birth 
right  of  the  American.  While  absent  from  home, 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER.  79 

a  young  British  officer,  who  had  been  severely 
wounded,  was  picked  up  by  the  father  of  my  be 
trothed  and  carried  to  his  home.  Ellen  nursed  him 
through  a  long  and  severe  illness,  forgot  her  sacred 
vows  to  me,  gave  her  heart  to  my  rival — and — and — 
I  returned  to  find  her  the  wife  of  another.  Would  to 
God  I  could  obliterate  from  the  page  of  memory  that 
fatal  hour.  She,  that  I  loved  and  trusted,  was  false, 
and  her  falsehood  made  me  a  misanthrope,  a  dark 
scowling  miserable  being  in  my  youth,  and  in  my  old 
age  a  querulous,  fault-finding  old  man  that  nobody 
loves,  and  every  body  either  hates  or  fears." 

"  Do  not  s"ay  so,  dear  Mr.  Woodville.  I,  for  one, 
neither  hate  nor  fear  you.  You  have  been  very  kind 
to  me,  and  let  others  change  as  they  will,  you  have 
always  met  me  with  smiles  ami  words  of  encourage 
ment.  Indeed,  but  for  you,  my  lonely  position  here 
would  have  been  far  less  tolerable." 

"  Say  you  so,  'Marcia  ?  Well,  well,  that  will  be 
some  cause  for  joy  in  the  old  man's  heart.  I  know 
not  why,  my  dear  child,  but  I  liked  you  the  first  mo 
ment  I  saw  you.  Your  pale,  sad  face,  your  gentle, 
modest  manners,  and  your  evident  devotion  to  your 
mother  and  brother,  all  interested  me  in  you,  and  I 
have  since  then  had  ample  opportunity  to  satisfy  my 
self  that  my  interest  was  not  misplaced ;  but  I  am 
wandering  from  my  subject.  To  resume  my  argu 
ment  where  I  left  off,  I  must  say  that  this  misan 
thropic  state  of  mind  was  iny  besetting  sin.  The  best 


80  WAY-MARKS  IN   THE 

years  of  my  life  were  spent  in  brooding  over  my 
wrongs,  and  I  constantly  encouraged  and  nurtured  all 
the  evil  feelings  of  my  heart.  I  viewed  all  mankind 
through  a  jaundiced  medium,  and  a  long  time  elapsed 
ere  I  was  awakened  to  the  sin  I  was  committing  against 
God  and  my  fellow  creatures.  The  hour  of  repent 
ance  came  at  last,  and  in  my  feeble  efforts  to  undo  the 
past,  and  become  a  blessing  instead  of  a  curse  to  my 
race,  I  have  experienced  the  only  emotions  of  happi 
ness  allowed  me  to  cheer  my  down-hill  journey  to  the 
tomb.  Oh !  believe  me,  my  child,  the  man  who  for 
gets  his  duty  to  God  and  to  his  fellow  man,  who  closes 
his  heart  to  the  appeal  of  suffering  humanity,  and  who 
believes  it  is  no  business  of  his,  if  half  the  world  JJL 
starve  or  freeze,  so  he  justly  liquidates  all  the  claims 
that  honor  and  the  laws  of  his  country  bid  him  re 
cognize  ;  that  man,  I  say,  is  a  debtor  to  his  God,  and 
he  shall  be  weighed  in  the  balance  and  found  wanting ; 
and,  at  a  bar  where  impartial  justice  is  administered, 
he  will  receive  his  doom." 

"I  have  often  wondered  why  it  is  that  the  hearts  of 
the  rich  are  so  hard.  I  think  it  would  be  the  greatest 
joy  of  my  life  to  do  good,  if  I  had  it  in  my  power. 
One  day  when  I  made  the  same  remark  to  my  teacher, 
she  told  me  '  the  fuller  the  purse  got  the  tighter  the 
strings  were  drawn,'  and  I  suppose  it  must  be  the 
case,  but  I  don't  think  the  possession  of  riches  could 
ever  harden  my  heart  to  the  sufferings  of  the  poor." 

"  Ah  !  child,    you    know  not  the  deceitfulness  of 


LIFE   OF  A   WANDEKEE.  81 

the  human  heart.  It  is  impossible  to  judge,  if  your 
circumstances  should  change,  if  your  heart  would  not 
change  also.  Poor  human  nature,  how  frail  it  is. 
How  its  best  resolves,  its  wisest  precautions,  are  often 
overturned  in  a  moment,  and  the  long  pent-up  and  re 
stricted  emotions  of  years  burst  their  bonds  and  carry 
all  before  them.  Well,  well,  life  at  the  best  is  a  mov 
ing  panorama,  abounding  in  light  and  shade,  and  it 
seems  to  me  the  dark  spots  are  far  more  prominent 
than  the  bright." 

"  Surely  this,  then,  is  one  of  the  bright  spots,  for 
here  is  the  end  of  our  walk,  and  a  happy,  happy  home 
this  seems  to  be.  Good  morning,  Mrs.  Woodville ;  I 
hope  we  have  not  kept  you  waiting  breakfast  for  us." 

"  That  would  not  have  been  a  capital  crime,  even  if 
you  had." 

"  Laurestina,  where  is  my  kiss  ?  Coming,  aye  ? 
I  thought  you  would  not  deprive  me  of  it.  Indeed,  I 
don't  know  how  I  should  get  along  without  it.  Boys, 
why  have  you  not  been  out  this  morning  ?" 

"  Our  lessons  are  so  hard  that  we  have  been  up  ever 
since  six  o'clock  studying  them.  We  had  no  time  to 
go  out." 

"  You  would  have  had  plenty  of  time,  if  you  had 
studied  last  evening,  instead  of  playing.  My  motto 
has  always  been  'work  first  and  play  afterwards.'" 

"Come  to  breakfast,"  said  Jacob,  and  in  we  went. 
Mary  handed  me  my  coffee.     I  tasted  it,  and  begged 
her  to  put  some  more  sugar  in  it.     I  have  always  had 
8 


82  WAY-MARKS    IN   THE 

a  fashion  of  sipping  my  coffee,  and  getting  it  quite  to 
my  taste  before  I  began  my  breakfast.  When  I  had 
finished  eating,  I  drank  the  whole  cup-full  at  once. 

Mary  brought  me  the  sugar  bowl  and  I  sweetened 
to  my  taste.  I  then  ate  a  hearty  breakfast,  talked 
with  the  children,  and  began  to  throw  off  the  uneasy 
sensations  I  had  experienced  an  hour  before.  Octave 
looked  at  me  fixedly,  as  if  to  chide  me  for  what  he 
doubtless  supposed  my  heartlessness,  whereas  I  acted 
carelessly,  with  the  sole  desire  of  putting  him  at  his 
ease.  I  raised  my  cup  to  my  lips  and  drank  it  every 
drop.  I  looked  at  Mary.  She  was  standing  opposite 
to  me,  and  behind  Mrs.  Woodville's  chair.  The  old 
expression  was  in  her  face  now,  and  a  strange,  wild 
light  was  in  her  eyes.  All  at  once  the  conviction 
flashed  itself  upon  me  that  she  was  crazy.  Before  I 
had  time  to  pursue  the  thread  which  this  suggestion 
opened  before  me,  a  horrible  pain  seized  me.  My 
brain  seemed  to  be  on  fire.  My  head  swam,  my 
temples  throbbed  with  all  the  maddening  fever  of  de 
lirium.  A  burning  sensation,  as  of  coals  of  fire  in 
my  stomach,  filled  me  with  the  most  intense  agony. 
I  know  my  face  was  pale  as  ashes.  My  compressed 
lips  were  livid  as  those  of  a  corpse.  I  felt  as  though 
death,  in  its  last  dread  agony,  was  upon  me,  and  all 
at  once  the  truth  flashed  like  a  meteor  across  my  mind. 
I  rose  from  the  table,  staggered  to  the  sofa,  and,  as  I 
threw  myself  with  all  the  superhuman  might  of  de 
spair  upon  it,  I  screamed  out,  in  tones  of  horror, 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDEREK.  83 

"  God  of  Heaven,  have  mercy  upon  me !     I  am 

poisoned  ! 

We  will  here  make  some  extracts  from  Mr.  Wood- 
villc's  diary,  in  order  to  pursue  the  thread  of  our 
story. 

i 

FEBRUARY  5th. — In  the  lonely  silence  of  my  cham 
ber  I  have  sought  in  vain  for  rest ;  but,  alas,  the  hor 
rors  of  this  day  have  banished  peace  and  quiet. 
Would  that  I  could  forget  even  for  an  hour,  the  tor 
ture  that  is  racking  our  poor  Marcia.  Poor,  lonely 
girl ;  far  from  her  home  and  all  she  holds  most  dear, 
and  suffering  thus  for  a  crime  committed  by  another. 
Thou  knowest,  oh  God,  why  she  must  pay  the  penalty 
of  what  she  is  innocent  of.  Ah,  Octave,  how  has  that 
sin  of  thine  early  youth  returned  upon  thee,  to  curse 
thee  in  her  thou  wouldst  die  to  save.  I  pity  thee, 
poor  boy ;  from  my  heart,  I  pity  thee. 

It  is  now  two  o'clock.  I  will  keep  my  lonely  vigil 
here,  for  I  cannot  sleep.  I  will  write  all  that  passes 
around  me,  for  should  she  be  spared,  the  events  of 
this  period  would  possess  a  fearful  interest  for  her. 
Oh,  those  long,  weary  hours  that  elapsed  before  the 
doctor  came.  I  have  such  fears — should  she  die — 
should  her  soul  be  called  away,  and  nothing  be  left  of 
the  bright,  young  creature,  that  has  been  a  ray  of 
sunshine  to  my  heart,  but  a  loathsome  corpse — 
alas,  how  shall  I  tell  her  mother  the  sad  tale  ?  In 


84  WAY-MARKS   IN  THE 

what  words  could  I  clothe  such  intelligence  ?  I  con 
fess  I  shrink  from  the  task.  I  brought  her  here, 
poor  delicate  girl.  She  came  to  seek  health  and 
healing  in  the  warm  balmy  breezes  of  the  sunny 
South,  and  she  has  found  a  cruel  enemy,  poison, 
agony,  and  it  may  be  an  untimely  grave.  Oh !  Thou 
who  hast  promised  to  hear  the  prayers  of  those  who 
cry  unto  Thee,  listen  this  night  to  the  voice  of  my 
sorrow,  which  is  torturing  my  poor  heart  beyond  mor 
tal  endurance.  I  am  an  old  man,  and  my  course  is 
nearly  run.  She  is  young,  and  beautiful,  and  good. 
Oh,  spare  her,  and  if  one  must  be  sacrificed,  take  me ! 
I  cheerfully  resign  myself.  I  would  die  happy  in  the 
thought  that  she  would  return  to  be  once  more  the 
joy  of  her  widowed  mother's  heart.  Oh!  God  of 
Heaven,  hear  my  prayer ! 

Now  let  me  collect  my  scattered  thoughts.  First, 
were  the  alarm  and  terror  of  the  whole  household, 
when  we  found  that  Marcia  had  swallowed,  in  her 
colfee,  a  large  dose  of  arsenic.  We  stood  by  appalled, 
while  Octave  rushed  out  of  the  house,  saddled  his 
fastest  horse,  and  galloped  with  incredible  swiftness 
down  the  avenue,  endowed  with  the  superhuman 
power  and  energy  of  love.  My  sister  held  her  head, 
bathed  her  temples,  and  vainly  tried  to  lull  her  to 
rest  -upon  her  bosom.  Gently,  as  a  mother  would 
have  tended  her  darling  child,  she  nursed  her,  and 
proved  the  truth  of  what  I  have  often  asserted,  that 
after  all  her  heart  is  in  the  right  place.  And  then 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER.  85 

the  children  crowded  around  her,  with  tears  and  sobs, 
all  eager  to  display  their  affection — for  they  all  love 
her  dearly.  Indeed  it  is  strange  that  she  has  so  com 
pletely  won  all  their  hearts.  But,  alas,  no  one  could 
help  loving  her  that  knew  her.  Poor  child,  so  simple, 
artless,  and  confiding,  striving  always  to  do  the  right, 
and  loving,  with  her  guileless  heart,  the  meanest  in 
sect  God  has  blessed  with  life.  How  Mary  could 
have  found  it  in  her  power  to  harm  her,  I  don't  know, 
for  there  is  a  sweetness  about  her  that  disarms  hatred.^ 
Oh  Marcia !  Marcia !  child  of  innocence  and  truth, 
would  that  I  could  save  thee  from  the  tortures  that 
are  racking  thee.  I  hear  thy  piteous  meanings,  and 
they  touch  my  heart.  I  will  come  to  thee,  poor  suf 
ferer.  Perhaps  I  can  do  something  to  comfort  thee. 

$.  j£.          jk        <•  ^.          ift  4l    '       $  j£ 

I  have  -been  to  her  chamber  to  gaze,  in  speechless 
agony,  upon  the  writhing  form  of  the  victim.  She 
did  not  know  me.  Delirium  has  veiled  her  eyeballs; 
and  oh  !  what  a  change  has  come  over  that  fair, 
young  face,  in  these  few  short  hours.  The  doctor  is 
there,  keeping  watch  beside  her.  In  answer  to  my 
look  of  inquiry,  he  shook  his  head  mournfully,  oh! 
so  mournfully ;  as  if  he  feared  there  was  no  hope. 
I  felt  as  if  my  heart  would  break.  My  sister  is  there, 
and  Octave  kneels  beside  the  bed,  suffering  anguish 
enough  to  atone  for  the  crime  which  is  now  crushing 
him  with  its  fearful  retribution.  He  has  indeed  lived 
an  age  of  misery  in  one  day.  Ah,  how  fondly  he 
8* 


80  WAY-MARKS    IN   THE 

loves  the  pallid  stricken  form  that  lies  before  him. 
How  the  pent  up  devotion  of  his  heart  swells  up  to 
his  face,  and  proclaims,  what  he  no  longer  seeks  to 
hide.  I  do  not  blame  him  for  loving  her.  Who 
could  help  it  ?  Who  could  help  it  ? 

Octave  has  just  called  the  doctor  out,  and  told  him 
to  save  her  life,  to  watch  over  her  night  and  day,  till 
the  danger  was  passed,  and  he  would  reward  him  to 
the  half  of  his  fortune.  Alas,  poor  boy,  I  fear  that 
gold  and  science  and  prayer  alike,  will  fail.  There 
seems  a  chilling  presence  here,  as  if  death  sat  at  the 
bedside.  Pray  God  I  may  be  deceived  in  my  fears. 

FEBRUARY  6th.  —  Day  dawned  at  last,  and  I 
hastened  to  Marcia's  chamber.  As  I  drew  near  the 
bedside,  the  doctor  approached  me,  and  whispered  a 
sentence  in  my  ear.  What  words  were  those  he 
breathed  to  me  ?  They  seemed  like  droppings  from 
some  celestial  fountain  of  eloquence,  as  they  entered 
my  heart,  and  talismanic-like  sent  the  sluggish  blood 
coursing  rapidly  though  my  veins.  "  There  is  hope." 
Sweet  words  !  In  the  wildness  of  my  joy,  I  could 
have  kissed  the  doctor.  "  There  is  hope."  Three 
simple  words,  and  yet  upon  them  hung  life  and  death, 
joy  and  sorrow,  happiness  and  wo. 

I  leaned  over  the  reclining  form  of  the  fair  Marcia. 
She  was  sleeping.  One  snowy  arm  lay  under  her 
head,  the  other  hung  by  her  side.  Her  beautiful  hair 
was  thrown  back  upon  the  pillow,  and  lay  a  perfect 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER.  87 

mass  of  rich  auburn  curls.  Some  little  of  the  warm 
tide  of  life  was  returning  to  her  lovely  lips,  and  her 
breathing  was  rather  easy.  Her  violet  eyes  were 
closed  tightly,  and  were  surrounded  by  those  dark 
blue  circles,  so  sure  an  evidence  of  suffering.  The 
long,  black  lashes  rested  on  her  pale  cheek,  and  she 
was  beautiful  still,  though  wearing  the  marks  of  an 
guish  and  pain. 

My  sister  sat  dozing  in  an  easy  chair  by  the  bed 
side,  but  Octave  still  knelt  in  the  same  position,  and 
gazed  with  the  same  look  of  intense  suffering  at  the 
pale  face  before  him.  I  approached  him,  and  bending 
down,  repeated  in  his  ear  the  words  of  the  physician. 
He  raised  his  eyes  quickly  to  mine,  and  then  glanced 
interrogatively  at  the  doctor,  who  bowed  his  head  in 
the  affirmative.  Joy  is  as  overpowering  in  its  influ 
ences  as  sorrow,  and  Octave  buried  his  head  in  the 
bed  clothes,  and  wept  like  a  child.  I  was  rejoiced  to 
see  these  tears.  I  knew  they  would  lessen  the  fever 
that  was  burning  at  his  heart  and  maddening  his 
brain.  As  I  left  the  room,  I  met  April  who  had  just 
returned  from  -the  pursuit  of  the  guilty  girl,  who  had 
been  the  cause  of  all  this  misery.  He  beckoned  me 
to  follow  him  into  the  parlor,  and  when  he  had  quietly 
closed  the  door,  he  said, 

"  We  have  got  her,  massa,  safe  and  sound." 

"Where  did  you  find  her  ?"  I  asked. 

"Down   in    Stokely's  woods,  but  she   gin  us  the 
greatest  chase  you  ever  see.     We  wouldn't  a  found 


88  WAY-MAKES   IN   THE 

her  now,  but  we  got  Toby's  blood  hounds  on  the  scent, 
and  they  soon  hunted  her  down.  She  ran  up  a  tree, 
and  they  tore  round  it  and  pawed  the  trunk,  and  would 
a  teared  her  to  bits  if  we  hadn't  a  called  'em  off.  Oh ! 
but  she  was  skared.  When  we  tuk  hold  of  her,  she 
shivered  like  as  if  she  was  a  goin'  to  pieces." 

"  Where  is  she  now  ?" 

"  Back  in  the  kitchen,  'till  we  find  out  what  to  do 
with  her." 

"  Take  her  to  the  cotton  gin — bind  her  hand  and 
foot,  and  keep  two  of  the  plantation  boys  with  her  all 
the  time — and  remember  April,  your  master,  Octave, 
will  look  to  you  for  her  safe-keeping." 

"  Trust  to  me,  massa.     I'll  take  good  care  uv  her." 

"  I  don't  wish  you  to  be  unkind  to  her — don't  taunt 
her,  or  suffer  others  to  do  so.  Do  you  hear?" 

"Yes,  massa,  I  hears  and  I  heeds,  though  she  don't 
'serve  no  such  exclemency." 

"  It  is  not  for  you  to  judge  of  that,  April.  Now 
go,  and  do  as  I  bid  you." 

FEBRUARY  7th. — As  I  sat  in  the  dining  room,  about 
eleven  o'clock  this  morning,  my  sister  and  Octave  en 
tered.  Octave  said, 

"  What  did  you  say  the  doctor  told  you,  mother?" 

"  He  is  of  opinion  that  she  will  recover,  but  that 
the  effects  of  the  poison  will  go  with  her  to  the  grave." 

"And  this  is  all  my  fault.  I  have  brought  down 
upon  this  young  girl's  innocent  head  all  this  weight  of 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER.  89 

misery.  I  have  doomed  her  to  an  early  grave.  How 
can  I  bear  all  this  patiently  ?  I  feel  as  if  it  would 
drive  me  mad." 

"  Now,  don't,  my  son,  take  it  so  to  heart.  Rather 
be  thankful  that  it  is  no  worse." 

"  Worse  !  How  could  it  be  worse  ?  Alas  !  what 
reparation  can  I  offer  her — what  atonement  can  I 
make  for  all  she  has  suffered?" 

"  Indeed,  I  know  not.     She  would  scorn  money." 

"  And  I  would  scorn  myself  for  offering  it." 

"  Then  I  don't  know  what  you  can  do,  but  be  as  kind 
to  her  as  possible." 

"  I  can  make  her  my  wife." 

"  Marry  her  ?  impossible !  Such  a  match  is  entirely 
beneath  you,  my  son." 

"And  why  beneath  me?  On  the  contrary,  I  feel 
that  all  the  condescension  would  be  on  her  part.  Do 
you  object  simply  because  she  is  poor  and  I  rich? 
What  is  it  but  chance  that  has  made  these  different 
distinctions?  Marcia  is  a  lady  in  every  sense  of  the 
word.  She  is  pure-hearted,  gentle  and  amiable.  She 
is  graceful  as  a  gazelle,  and  beautiful  as  the  morning. 
What  more  can  you  desire  in  a  daughter?" 

"  I  acknowledge  that  she  is  all,  and  even  more  than 
you  say,  but  I  cannot  overcome  my  prejudices.  What 
will  the  world  say  at  the  intelligence  of  the  rich  Octave 
Woodville,  the  wealthiest  planter  in  Georgia,  having 
wedded  the  poor  governess,  who  was  hired  to  teach  his 
sister's  children?" 


90  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

"  Let  the  world  talk,  and  say  what  it  will.  Oh  !  my 
mother,  would  you  wreck  your  son's  happiness  for 
aught  of  so  little  moment  ?  Let  those  who  do  not  like 
my  bride  absent  themselves  from  my  house.  The 
great  and  good  would  love  her,  and  do  her  honor ;  and 
for  the  opinion  of  the  multitude,  I  would  not  give  the 
snap  of  my  finger.  And  then  you  must  consider,  mo 
ther,  it  is  I  who  have  made  her  suffer.  Had  it  not 
been  for  me,  this  terrible  .thing  would  never  have  hap 
pened.  Oh !  take  it  home  to  your  own  kind  heart. 
Ask  yourself  what  my  duty  is,  aside  from  all  foolish 
pride,  and  as  a  woman  and  a  Christian,  I  know  what 
your  answer  must  be." 

"I  know  not  what  to  say.  What  does  your  uncle 
think  ?"^^ 

"  I  think  just  as  Octave  does,  and  I  do  not  believe 
the  world  contains  a  better  wife  than  she  would  make. 
She  is  splendidly  educated,  has  a  fine  mind,  noble  sen 
timents,  and  fixed  principles  of  right.  In  addition  to 
this,  is  the  fact  that  through  Octave's  own  crime,  she 
has  been  made  an  invalid  for  life." 

"  Do  not  say  a  word  about  that,  uncle.  God  knows 
how  ceaselessly  I  have  upbraided  myself  for  the  past. 
I  would  willingly  atone  for  the  evil  I  have  done  with 
my  life,  if  it  could  be  of  any  avail.  I  love  Marcia, 
and  I  only  want  your  approbation  to  the  match,  and 
I  will  propose  myself  to  her  at  once.  You  want  to 
see  me  happy,  do  you  not,  dear  mother  ?" 

"  Certainly;  there  is  no  object  I  seek  more  earnestly 


LIFE   OF  A   WANDERER.  91 

than  your  happiness,  my  dear  son ;  but  suppose  I  did 
give  my  consent.  How  could  you  live  secure  from 
that  abominable  Mary." 

"  I  would  sell  her  off,  in  some  distant  State,  for  a 
plantation  negro." 

"  Well,  if  you  insist  upon  it,  I  suppose  I  must  con 
sent.  Marry  her,  my  son,  be  kind  and  affectionate  to 
her,  and  God  bless  you  both." 

"  Thank  you,  my  dear  mother.  I  knew  you  had 
my  happiness  at  heart,  and  could  be  easily  induced  to 
sacrifice  your  pride  to  it.  Now,  I  have  removed  every 
obstacle  but  one,  and  that  I  hope  you  will  be  able  to 
surmount." 

"What  is  that?" 

"  Marcia's  own  consent.  I  have  been  led  to  fear 
that  she  positively  dislikes  me." 

"  Nonsense !  She  has  too  much  good  sense  to  re 
fuse  such  an  offer.  She  has  treated  you  coldly,  out  of 
maiden  bashfulness,  and  I  like  her  the  better  for  it." 

"  I  leave  it  with  you,  my  mother.  Plead  the  cause 
of  your  son  as  if  it  was  his  life  you  sought  to  save." 

FEBRUARY  15th. — Our  little  Marcia  has  been  gradu 
ally  improving,  and  to-day  she  has  been  sitting  up.  It 
was  judged  prudent  to  say  nothing  to  her  about  the 
future,  but  to  keep  her  mind  perfectly  free  from  every 
care.  This  morning  she  seemed  so  bright,  my  sister 
thought  she  might  venture  on  her  long-deferred  con 
versation,  and  she  began  thus  : 


92  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

"  My  dear  Marcia,  I  have  something  of  importance 
to  communicate  to  you.  Do  you  think  you  can  listen 
to  it  without  taxing  your  powers  too  much?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  think  I  can.  I  feel  quite  strong  to 
day." 

"My  son  loves  you,  Marcia." 

"I  assure  you,  dear  madam,  J  never  sought  his 
love." 

"  I  am  aware  of  it,  my  dear  child,  and  the  fact  is 
only  one  more  of  the  noble  traits  of  your  character. 
Octave  loves  you,  and  would  make  you  his  wife ;  and 
I  join  my  entreaties  to  his,  to  implore  you  not  to 
refuse  him.  I  believe  his  affection  for  you  is  of  the 
purest  and  most  exalted  character,  and  I  entreat  you 
to  give  me  some  words  of  encouragement  to  cheer  him 
in  his  sorrow,  for  you  know  not  how  he  has  suffered 
during  your  illness." 

"  I  regret  very  much  he  has  suffered  aught  on  my 
account,  and  I  am  very  grateful  to  him  for  his  exalted 
opinion  of  me ;  but  listen  to  me,  and  I  will  give  you  a 
decided  answer.  I  deeply  feel  all  your  kindness.  I 
love  you  for  it,  and  I  shall  never  forget  it,  but  I 
respectfully  decline  an  alliance  with  your  son.  You 
have  a  right  to  demand  my  reasons,  and  I  will,  in  all 
truth  and  sincerity,  confess  to  you  that  I  do  not  love 
him.  'Tis  true  I  feel  for  him  an  interest.  I  hope  he 
may  be  happy  and  entirely  forget  me.  I  think  I  can 
conscientiously  acquit  myself  of  ever  having,  by  word 
or  deed,  offered  him  any  encouragement.  I  have 


LIFE   OF  A   WANDERER.  93 

never  known  what  it  is  to  love ;  yet  I  feel  within  me 
the  power  of  loving,  and  should  I  ever  meet  the  being 
that  comes  up  to  my  idea  of  manliness,  and  he  woos 
me  as  maiden  modesty  approves,  doubtless  I  shall  be 
won.  I  deem  it  but  justice  to  say  that  I  do  not  now, 
and  never  can  love  your  son,  and  in  all  humility  I  re 
linquish  all  title  to  the  high  honor  he  has  wished  to 
confer  on  me.  After  this  declaration  on  my  part,  it  is 
evident  that  it  would  be  unpleasant  to  remain  under 
the  same  roof  with  him,  and  I  will  therefore  prepare 
to  return  to  my  mother,  as  soon  as  my  strength 
permits." 

"But,  Marcia,  my  dear  child,  you  have  not  con 
sidered  the  case  in  all  its  bearings.  This  marriage 
would  be  an  advantageous  one.  My  son  is  rich.  He 
would  be  a  son  to  your  mother.  He  would  protect 
and  educate  your  brother." 

**  Interest  will  never  influence  me  in  the  acceptance 
of  a  husband.  Pardon  me  for  saying  it,  madam,  but 
you  have  formed  a  poor  estimate  of  my  character." 

"  Rather  pardon  me,  my  dear  child,  for  supposing, 
for  one  moment,  that  a  noble  heart  like  yours  could 
be  bought  for  gold.  Oh,  my  son,  my  son,  what  a  trea 
sure  you  have  lost." 

"  Ah,  believe  me,  madam,  in  a  garden  of  beauty 
and  loveliness  like  America,  your  son  will  not  long 
search  in  vain  for  a  suitable  wife." 

"  No  one  can  fill  your  place  in  his  heart,  my  dear 
Marcia." 

9 


94  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

"  Let  us  change  the  subject.  I  have  some  questions 
to  ask  of  you,  if  you  are  willing  to  answer  them." 

"Speak,  my  child.  I  only  wonder  that  your 
curiosity  did  not  prompt  them  before." 

"  Who  administered  that  deadly  drug,  that  came  so 
near  killing  me?" 

"Mary." 

"  And  why  ?  Surely  I  never  harmed  her  in 
thought,  word  or  deed." 

"  Octave  loved  you." 

"  And  why  should  that  make  her  wish  to  kill 
me?" 

"  Can  you  not  guess  ?" 

"I  confess  I  cannot." 

"Mary  loves  Octave  herself." 

"What !  the  black  slave  love  her  master?" 

"Yes;  unfortunately,  yes." 

"  But  this  is  a  mystery.  Why  did  she  act  so,  unless 
she  had  some  horrible  revenge  to  gratify?" 

"  Indeed,  Marcia,  I  scarcely  know  how  to  answer 
you.  Your  pure  soul  can  not  readily  conceive  the 
wickedness  of  the  world.  But  this  is  a  story  you  have 
a  right  to  know,  even  though  it  makes  the  mother 
blush  for  her  son.  You  came  near  losing  your  life  by 
it.  Listen  then  to  what  I  shall  repeat  to  you." 

"  Nay,  madam,  nay.  Spare  yourself  any  repetition 
that  may  be  painful  to  you,  and  pardon  me  if  I  have 
unwittingly  disturbed  your  serenity  of  mind.  God 


LIFE    OF   A   WANDERER.  95 


*? 


forbid  that  I  should  give  a  moments  pain  to  the  heart 
of  any  mother." 

"  It  is  right  that  you  should  know  the  whole  truth, 
Marcia,  and  I  will  try  to  word  it  so  that  it  may  not 
even  offend  your  chaste  ears.  This  is  the  story." 

"  Oh,  madam,  this  is  dreadful.  I  bitterly  reproach 
myself  for  having  thus  stirred  the  dregs  of  your  cup 
of  sorrow.  Pray  forgive  me." 

"  Nay,  child,  it  was  a  duty  I  owed  you.  You  now 
understand  it  all.  I  may  trust  to  your  honor  never 
to  divulge  it." 

"Ah,  dear  Mrs.  "Woodville,  believe  me,  you  may." 

"  I  trust,  Marcia,  you  will  reconsider  your  intention 
of  leaving  us.     The  children  have  become  attached  to 
you,  and  brother  John  will  miss  you  sadly,  to  sayjj 
nothing  of  myself." 

"And  yet  you  must  admit,  Mrs.  Woodville,  my 
situation  would  be  unpleasant." 

"  Oh,  not  at  all.  Octave  would  go  to  some  of  his 
other  plantations,  and  try  to  learn  forgetfulness  in 
absence." 

"  Do  not,  for  one  moment,  suppose  I  would  banish 
your  son  from  his  home  and  your  presence,  for  a  single 
hour.  Oh,  no,  the  very  thought  would  make  me 
miserable.  Permit  me  to  regain  sufficient  strength, 
and  I  will  return  at  once  to  my  mother." 

"  My  dear,  dear  Marcia,  how  it  grieves  me  to  see 
you  the  victim  of  that  wicked  woman.  You  know  not 


96  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

how  seriously  your  health  is  undermined  by  the  effects 
of  that  poison.  It  will  be  some  time  before  you  can 
enter  upon  the  laborious  duties  of  a  teacher,  and  you 
must  permit  me  to  pay  you  for  all  the  time  you  lose. 
Indeed,  conscience  would  not  acquit  me,  if  I  did 
not." 

"  No,  madam,  I  cannot  think  of  receiving  anything 
over  my  stipulated  salary.  That  was  handsome 
enough,  and  I  firmly  decline  taking  one  penny  more 
than  I  have  earned." 

"  We  shall  see  about  that.  Now,  I  must  leave  you, 
and  go  to  Octave,  who,  poor  boy,  little  dreams  I  come 
to  blight  his  hopes.  I  will  soon  return  to  you.  Don't 
get  lonesome." 

"  I  can't  be  that  in  the  hope  of  your  speedy 
return." 

"  Oh,  little  flatterer,  I  go." 

"  Shall  I  describe  to  you  poor  Octave's  feelings 
when  his  mother  told  him  that  Marcia  would  not 
marry  him  ?  Shall  I  dwell  upon  the  sorrow  that  from 
that  moment  clouded  his  brow  ?  Oh,  no ;  it  would 
be  waste  of  paper.  Too  many  of  such  descriptions 
have  already  been  penned.  It  would  be  useless  repe 
tition.  Kather  come  with  me  to  the  chamber  of  the 
invalid,  and  listen  to  the  sweet,  sad  melancholy  of  her 
voice,  as  she  answers  my  questions,  and  tells  me  what 
she  thought  of  death,  when  it  hung  like  a  flaming 
sword  over  her  couch." 

"  "When  first  the  maddening  conviction  forced  itself 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER.  97 

upon  me  that  I  was  poisoned,  a  shrinking  sense  of 
terror  entered  my  soul — a  terror  so  black,  so  over 
whelming,  that  my  brain  reeled  under  its  force.  I 
had  no  hope  of  life.  I  viewed  death  as  certain,  and 
the  last,  sad  rending  of  the  spirit  from  the  body,  the 
clay-cold  corpse,  the  glazed  eye,  the  fallen  jaw,  the 
shroud,  the  coffin  and  the  open  grave,  passed  in  rapid 
review  before  my  mind,  much  more  quickly  indeed 
than  I  can  tell  it.  And  then  came  the  remembrance 
of  my  mother,  and  my  darling  brother.  They  whom 
I  loved  so  dearly,  and  who,  I  believed,  I  should  never 
see  again  on  earth.  Oh !  thought  I,  that  I  could  once 
more  see  her  loving  eyes  bent  upon  me,  hear  again 
the  music  of  her  voice,  and  feel  the  holy  kiss  with 
which  she  so  often  blessed  me.  But  no,  said  I,  this 
cannot  be.  Death  is  staring  me  in  the  face.  I  must 
meet  it.  In  an  incredibly  short  space  of  time  every 
event  of  my  life  passed  before  me.  I  remembered 
things  which  had  long  lain  silent  in  the  cells  of  memory. 
Sins  arose  and  stood  around  me,  and  claimed  me  as 
their  parent.  Oh  how  hideous  and  black  seemed  to 
me  the  history  of  my  heart.  How  ungrateful  I  had 
been  to  God,  for  all  His  goodness.  How  often  had 
He  called  me,  with  tones  of  love,  and  how  often  had 
I  neglected  Him.  How  had  His  blessed  spirit  striven 
with  me,  coming  again  and  again  and  getting  answer 
every  time,  '  not  yet,  not  yet,  a  more  convenient  sea 
son.'  What  a  base  return  for  the  loving  kindness 
that  had  watched  over  me  and  protected  me  from 
9* 


98  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

dangers,  seen  and  unseen,  from  my  childhood  up. 
Weighed  down  with  a  sense  of  my  own  shame,  in  the 
presence  of  the  infinite,  I  could  only  call  out,  in 
tones  of  deep  contrition,  *  God  have  mercy  upon  me,  a 
miserable  sinner.'  But  now  the  fiery  tortures  com 
menced  again,  and  my  vitals  seemed  turned  to  living 
coals.  My  throat  was  dry  and  choked,  my  tongue 
was  parched  and  swollen,  and  an  unquenchable  thirst 
took  possession  of  me.  My  brain  reeled,  and  I  felt 
that  reason  was  giving  way.  I  knew  that  very  soon 
I  should  be  mad,  and  in  the  brief  interval  that  reason 
was  spared  me,  I  turned  my  thoughts  to  the  calm, 
peaceful  home  of  my  childhood.  I  imagined  my 
mother  sitting  at  her  sewing,  and  little  Benny,  with 
his  book,  beside  her.  I  painted  them  as  they  watched 
for  the  coming  of  a  letter  from  me.  I  saw  their  looks 
of  affection  and  interest  change  to  the  blackness  of 
despair,  as  they  read  tile  horrid  fate — death  by  poi 
son.  I  saw  my  mother,  in  her  wretchedness,  tear  the 
silvery  locks  from  her  noble  brow,  and  fling  aloft  her 
arms  in  the  wildness  of  phrenzy.  I  fancied  I  could 
hear  the  thrilling  tones  of  her  voice,  as  she  screamed 
my  name,  and  invoked  the  curses  of  heaven  upon  the 
head  of  my  murderer.  I  saw  my  little  brother,  as  he 
stood  there,  pallid  and  death-like,  the  big  tears  roll 
ing  down  his  cheeks,  his  tiny  hands  clasped  in  infant 
misery,  as  he  turned  his  eyes,  with  hopeless  appeal, 
upon  my  mother,  and  asked,  •  shall  I  never  see  sister 
any  more  ?  Did  you  say  that  Marcia  was  dead,  my 


LIFE   OF  A  WANDERER.  99 

own,  pretty,  sister  Marcia?  Oh,  she  promised  to 
come  back  to  me !  Won't  she  come,  dear  mother  ?' 

"I  dwelt  upon  this  scene  till  reason  tottered  on  her 
throne.  I  shrieked  forth  the  anguish  of  my  soul,  and 
was  a  maniac,  tortured  and  wrestling  in  the  mad  fury 
of  delirium.  All  was  chaos.  How  long  I  remained 
in  this  state  I  know  not,  but  I  awoke,  at  last,  to 
misery  and  wo.  I  heard  them  softly  whisper  around 
my  bed,  that  my  life  hung  on  a  slender  thread ;  that 
the  spirit  was  hovering,  as  it  were,  between  the  two 
worlds.  I  was  anxious  to  die,  for  I  was  completely 
prostrated,  and  I  felt  it  to  be  an  effort  to  breathe ; 
and  a  benumbing  torpor  seized  hold  of  the  faculties 
of  my  mind.  All  my  energies  were  crushed,  and  I 
still  feel  that  I  am  under  the  influence  of  the  poison 
ous  effects  of  the  deadly  drug. 

"  My  only  anxiety  is  to  get  away,  to  leave  behind 
me  all  remembrance  of  the  past,  and  to  pillow  my 
poor  head,  once  more  upon  my  mother's  breast.  It 
needs  the  magic  influence  of  her  smiles,  the  melody 
of  her  voice,  the  tenderness  of  her  watchful  care,  to 
charm  me  back  to  life  and  happiness  again." 

"And  all  these  you  shall  have,  my  sweet  child.  I 
myself  will  go  with  you,  and  watch  over  you,  as  ten 
derly  as  your  own  father  would  have  done.  You 
must  keep  up  your  spirits,  and  take  excellent  care  of 
yourself,  and  I  think  by  riding  out  every  day  to  re 
cruit  your  strength,  you  will  in  a  month,  perhaps,  be 
equal  for  the  journey." 


100  WAY-MARKS   IN    THE 

"  How  kind  you  are,  Mr.  Woodville.  How  can  I 
ever  thank  you  for  all  you  have  done  for  me  ?" 

"  By  not  thinking  me  the  cross  old  man  so  many 
deem  me.  Come,  cheer  up,  and  clothe  your  pale 
face  with  some  of  those  sweet  smiles  that  used  to  bring 
sunshine  to  my  heart.  Here  comes  Flora,  with  a 
rich  bunch  of  flowers  for  you." 

"  Oh,  how  beautiful !  Are  they  for  me  though, 
indeed,  Flora?" 

"  Yes,  uncle  Octave  has  just  been  to  get  them  for 

you." 

"  How  very  kind.  I  hope  he  did  not  give  himself 
any  trouble  for  me." 

"It  was  no  trouble,  I  know,  for  anything  uncle 
Octave  does  for  you  is  a  pleasure." 

"  So,  little  flatterer,  you  want  to  spoil  me  too,  do 

you?" 

"Nay,  sweet  child,  Flora  only  desires  to  do  you 
justice." 

"Poor  Octave.  I  am  sorry  that  I  cannot  make 
him  happy  as  he  wishes.  But,  alas,  happiness  I  fear 
is  a  phantom  that  smiles  but  to  allure  us.  "We  must 
look  beyond  this  vale  of  tears,  where  the  wanderer's 
weary  way  is  strewn  with  thorns,  if  we  wish  to  taste  a 
cup  of  pure  felicity." 


LIFE   OF  A   WANDERER.  101 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"  Thought,  like  a  bird  of  drooping  wing, 

Sits  hushed  upon  thy  brow ; 
While  from  thine  eyes  deep-shaded  spring, 
A  thousand  feelings  flow.1' 

A  month  has  passed  slowly  by,  and  here  I  still 
remain,  and  I  do  not  think  I  am  either  stronger  or 
better  than  I  was  at  the  commencement  of  it.  Why 
is  it  that  this  fearful  prostration  continues  so  long  ? 
Shall  I  never  regain  the  elasticity,  the  buoyancy  of 
youth  ?  The  doctor  tells  me  I  am  better,  and  that  I 
will  soon  be  well,  and  dear,  kind  Mr.  Woodville  has 
made  every  preparation  for  our  journey,  and  talks 
confidently  of  our  visit  to  New  York ;  yet,  notwith 
standing  all  this,  my  heart  is  sad,  and  hope  no  longer 
gilds  my  wandering  way.  I  have  a  dread  of  death : 
an  indefinite  sense  of  terror,  which  I  can  scarcely 
explain  to  myself?  And  why  should  I  fear  death? 
Is  it  not  a  good  friend  ?  Is  it  not  the  door-keeper  of 
heaven  ?  Are  there  not  joys  in  heaven,  never  tasted 
in  the  cup  of  life  we  drink  this  side  the  grave  ?  Is 
there  not  perfect  happiness  in  the  presence  of  God  ? 
Is  there  not  rest  from  all  the  sorrows  that  are  our 
portion  here  ?  Yes,  oh,  yes — but  yet  my  heart  clings 
to  the  dear  ones  I  must  leave  behind.  I  had  hoped 


102  WAY-MARKS    IN   THE 

to  be  the  prop  of  my  mother's  age ;  the  joy  and  com 
fort  of  her  life.  I  had  promised  myself  the  dear  pri 
vilege  of  warding  off  from  her  loved  form  the  blasts  of 
adversity,  the  sorrows  of  humanity :  to  encircle  her 
with  an  atmosphere  of  luxury,  and  shield  ^her  from 
trouble  and  care.  To  educate  my  little  brother,  and 
rear  him  up  to  a  life  of  usefulness  and  good ;  and  now 
to  die,  in  the  first  dawning  of  womanhood,  ere  yet  my 
sun  of  life  has  fairly  risen ;  ere  yet  my  fragile  bark 
has  been  well  launched ;  ere  I  have  learned  half  the 
sweet  emotions  the  human  heart  is  capable  of  feeling. 
Forbid  it,  heaven.  Spare  me  a  little  longer  from  the 
damp  charnel  house. 

It  was  from  a  reverie  like  this,  I  was  aroused  by  the 
entrance  of  Mrs.  Woodville.  She  who^at^first,  I  had 
read  as  the  coldest-hearted  of  her  sex,  now  never  en 
tered  my  room,  that  she  did  "not  seem  like  a  ray  of 
sunshine  to  my  lonely  heart. 

"  Come,  Marcia,  cheer  up.  There  is  a  stranger 
coming,  and  he  will  be  here  to  tea.  We  have  engaged 
his  services  to  teach  the  children,  and  John  has  been 
prevailed  upon  to  join  the  school,  and  I  trust  to  study 
in  real  earnest." 

"  What  a  burthen  I  have  become  to  you.  I  am  no 
longer  able  to  be  of  any  use  to  you." 

"  Do  not  say  so,  dear  child.  You  have  grown  so 
closely  into  our  hearts,  that  we  should  miss  you  as 
much,  if  you  left  us,  as  though  you  were  our  own  flesh 
and  blood.  But,  to  return  to  the  new  teacher.  He 


LIFE  OP  'A  WANDERER.  103 

is  from  the  State  of  New  York,  and  from  all  we  can 
glean,  he  is  a  man  of  finished  education,  polished 
manners,  and  possessed  of  a  mind  of  the  highest  order. 
I  trust  that  the  addition  to  our  family  circle  will  please 
you,  and  give  you  something  to  relieve  the  monotony 
of  your  life,  here  in  the  Georgia  woods." 

"  Dear  Mrs.  Woodville,  how  considerate  you  always 
are  for  me.  How  can  I  thank  you  for  all  your  kind, 
motherly  care  of  me.  I  bowed  low  over  her  hand  and 
kissed  it." 

It  was  a  beautiful  evening,  late  in  March.  Not  the 
cold,  blustering,  stormy  March  of  the  North,  but  the 
balmy,  genial,  fragrant  spring  of  the  South.  We  sat 
in  the  parlor,  awaiting  the  coming  of  the  stranger  Avho 
was  to  take  my  place.  The  children  indulged  in  many 
wonders  as  to  whether  the  new  teacher  would  be  cross ; 
if  he  approved  of  whipping,  if  he  gave  long  lessons,  if 
they  would  dare  to  speak  in  his  presence,  &c.  &c. 

"Don't  you  remember,"  said  Flora,  "how  we 
waited  when  Marcia  was  coming,  and  wondered  what 
she  would  be  like  ?" 

"Yes,  I  do,"  said  Albert.  "I  said  she  would  be  a 
tall,  cross,  long-nosed  specimen  of  humanity,  with  red 
hair." 

"It  was  I  that  said  she  would  have  red  hair,"  inter 
posed  Gregory. 

"Well,  did  you  find  yourselves  mistaken?"  asked 
Mrs.  Woodville. 

"Yes,  indeed,"  said  all  the  children  in  a  breath. 


104  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

"And  what  did  Laurestina  think  of  me  ?"  I  asked. 

"  I  was  afraid  you  would  whip  me,  when  you  came, 
for  mother  said  I  was  such  a  lazy  child,  and  I  felt 
certain  that  I  would  never  learn  my  lessons  in  time."u 

At  this  moment  we  heard  the  clattering  of  horses' 
hoofs,  and  looking  through  the  window  we  perceived  the 
expected  party  coming  up  the  avenue  at  a  brisk  trot. 

"  It  is  the  new  teacher,"  cried  out  all  the  children, 
and  in  another  moment  they  had  entered  the  room. 

The  children's  cousin,  whom  I  shall  call  cousin  John, 
approached  me,  and  greeted  me  warmly.  Although 
he  was  so  wild  and  refractory  to  others,  he  was  always 
gentle  and  docile  to  me.  Octave  came  next,  and  in 
quired,  with  the  tender  solicitude  of  a  brother,  after 
my  health.  He  then  introduced  the  stranger  to  me, 
whom  he  had  previously  presented  to  his  mother  and 
uncle. 

Harry  Percy  was  about  thirty  years  of  age.  He 
was  tall,  finely  formed,  and  splendidly  developed.  His 
broad  chest,  muscular  arm,  and  erect  figure,  left  you 
nothing  to  wish  for  to  make  up  a  model  of  manly 
beauty.  His  face  was  not  handsome,  and  a  casual  ob 
server  would  have  supposed  him  a  man  of  very  ordi 
nary  mental  powers.  His  hair,  which  was  black  and 
glossy,  he  wore  carelessly  pulled  down  over  a  broad 
and  ample  forehead.  His  eyes  were  large,  full  and 
brilliant  in  expression,  but  he  veiled  them  beneath 
their  lashes,  and  only  at  times  could  be  seen  glimpses 
of  the  fire  that  burned  within.  His  nose  was  rather 


LIFE   OF  A  WANDERER.  105 

homely,  and  as  it  was  neither  Grecian  nor  Roman,  I 
presume  it  must  have  belonged  to  the  same  family 
as  my  own,  commonly  known  hy  the  familiar  appella 
tion  of  "pug."  His  chin  was  prominent  enough  to 
bespeak  the  man  of  energy  and  decision.  And  now  I 
come  to  describe  that  feature  which,  in  my  opinion, 
tells  more  of  character  than  any  other  of  the  human 
face.  His  mouth  was  large,  and  was  filled  with  two 
rows  of  teeth  as  even  and  beautiful  as  pearls.  The 
bright  red  lips,  when  in  repose,  spoke  the  quiet  happi 
ness  of  a  mind  at  ease,  but  when  he  spoke  and  became 
interested  in  conversation,  the  smile  that  hovered 
round  his  lips  lit  up  his  face  with  superhuman  beauty, 
and  made  his  countenance  beam  with  intelligence  and 
animation.  I  never  saw  so  heavenly  an  expression  on 
the  face  of  a  human  creature.  And  when  first  it  shone 
on  me,  it  found  its  way  at  once  to  my  heart.  I  read 
in  that  bright  look,  in  that  soft  melodious  voice,  the 
mild  fluctuating  beauty  of  his  countenance,  which  ex 
pressed  piety,  love,  truth,  respect,  sternness,  energy 
and  candor,  by  turns — the  soul  that  could  not  be 
swerved  from  honor's  track — the  man  of  truth  and 
sincerity  of  mind  and  purpose.  I  studied  him  with  an 
interest  no  human  being  had  ever  awakened  in  my 
heart  before,  and  I  found  it  quite  easy  to  observe  him 
closely,  as  I  was  not  obliged  to  talk  much,  on  account 
of  my  being  an  invalid.  I  soon  became  convinced  that 
I  saw  before  me  a  man  whose  purity  of  heart,  strict, 
unbiased  integrity,  and  sinless  conscience,  made  him 
10 


106  WAY-MAKES   IN   THE 

worthy  of  the  esteem  and  admiration  of  all  good  men, 
and  I  felt  satisfied  that  the  dear  children  would  be  well 
taught,  and  kindly  treated  by  him.  At  supper,  he  was 
placed  beside  me,  and  the  gentle  attentions  he  paid  me 
pleased  me  more  perhaps  than  the  occasion  warranted. 
He  saw  that  I  was  an  invalid,  and  he  at  once  assumed 
a  frankness  towards  me  like  that  of  an  affectionate 
brother.  When  we  went  into  the  parlor,  after  tea,  he 
fixed  the  pillows  in  my  easy  chair,  and  placed  the  stool 
under  my  feet,  and  did  it  all  with  such  an  air  of  quiet 
self-possession  that  you  might  have  supposed  he  had 
known  me  for  years. 

The  conversation  turned  upon  education,  and  was 
briskly  supported  by  Octave,  Mr.  Woodville  and  cousin 
John,  and  now  and  then,  when  appealed  to,  Harry 
Percy  would  join  them,  and  there  was  in  all  he  said 
so  much  quiet  dignity  and  good  sound  sense  that  I  was 
more  than  ever  prepossessed  in  his  favor. 

Speaking  of  whipping,  Octave  said — 

"  I  judge  of  this  matter  entirely  from  my  own  expe 
rience,  and  I  am  quite  sure  I  never  learned  a  lesson 
better  for  having  been  whipped  into  it.  On  the  con 
trary,  a  dogged  resolution  possessed  me  to  see  how 
firmly  I  could  stand  out  against  my  master.  Often, 
while  the  lash  was  coming  down  on  my  back,  and  mak 
ing  me  wince  with  pain,  I  have  kept  repeating  to 
myself  'I'll  never  surrender — I'll  die  first.'  If  chil 
dren  wont  learn  without  whipping,  I  am  afraid  they 
never  will  with  it." 


LIFE   OF  A   WANDERER.  107 

"  I  think  it  is  shameful  to  whip  such  large  boys," 
said  cousin  John,  feelingly. 

"  Such  as  yourself,  I  presume,"  said  Mrs.  Woodville, 
with  a  demure  smile. 

"When  I  was  a  boy,"  said  Mr.  Woodville, 

"Which  was  some  few  days  ago,"  mumbled  Albert. 

"When  I  was  a  boy,  the  good  old-time  people  used 
to  think  very  highly  of  the  precepts  of  the  bible,  and 
when  I  saw  my  father  coming  to  me,  with  the  cat-o'-nine 
tails,  I  always  knew  the  first  words  would  be,  *  spare  the 
rod  and  spoil  the  child.'  I  make  no  doubt  I  should 
have  been  a  better  man  if  he  had  whipped  me  three 
times  where  he  did  once." 

"I  should  like  to  try  it  now,"  said  Albert  to  Flora. 

"A'nt  you  ashamed  of  yourself,"  was  the  reply. 

"  What  is  your  opinion,  Mr.  Percy  ?"  asked  Mr. 
Woodville.  "  Do  you  think  refractory  boys,  like  Albert 
here,  for  instance,  could  be  managed  without  corporeal 
punishment?" 

"  I  do  not  know  enough,  as  yet,  of  his  peculiar  or 
ganization,  and  therefore  could  not  answer  in  his  case ; 
but,  as  a  general  thing,  I  think  it  far  better  to  gain 
one's  end  by  gentleness.  That  boy  must  have  a  cow 
ardly  spirit  who  compels  his  teacher  to -whip  him  into 
the  performance  of  his  duties." 

"  Do  you  think  female  teachers  are  better  for 
boys?"  asked  Mrs.  Woodville. 

"  Most  unquestionably,  madam.  There  is  so  much 
gentleness  in  their  manners  and  character,  that,  in- 


108  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

sensibly  to  themselves,  the  boys'  feel  and  bow  to  it ; 
and  thus  begins  the  first  homage  they  pay  to  woman." 

"I  know  that  is  the  truth,"  interrupted  cousin 
John,  "  for  when  I  went  to  school  to  Miss  Sally 
Gibbs,  and  she  was  thirty,  and  I  was  ten,  I  was 
madly  in  love  with  her,  and  made  her  promise  to 
marry  me  as  soon  as  I  grew  up." 

"  Oh,  John,  what  nonsense,"  said  Mrs.  Woodville. 

"I  fully  agree  with  Mr.  Percy,"  said  Octave. 
"  The  mild  influence  of  woman  softens  down  all  the 
roughness  of  boyish  nature.  I  know  when  I  was  a 
boy,  I  would  have  hailed  the  advent  of  a  woman  into 
the  school  room  with  a  delight  bordering  on  madness. 
Constant  intercourse  with  the  sex  refines  and  elevates 
the  sentiments,  and  man  acquires,  in  the  society  of 
woman,  an  ease  and  refinement  of  manner  impossible 
to  gain  elsewhere ;  and  more ;  he  learns,  for  her  sake, 
still  more  devotedly  to  fulfill  his  duties  to  his  fellow 
man." 

"I  believe  what  you  say  is  correct,"  said  Mr. 
Woodville.  "  It  bears  the  impress  of  truth."  Mr. 
Percy  said, 

"I  believe  the  public  generally  are  waking  up  to 
this  fact.  Many  of  our  largest  schools  for  boys,  are 
now  entirely  under  the  care  of  lady  teachers,  and,  so 
far,  the  system  works  admirably.  I  hope  it  may  suc 
ceed,  for  it  will  be  the  means  of  giving  employment 
to  many  excellent  women  who  are  forced  to  labor  for 
their  bread." 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER.  109 

"  I  trust  it  may,  indeed,  from  the  bottom  of  my 
heart,"  said  Mrs.  Woodville,  "  and  I  have,  indeed, 
often  thought  it  a  great  pity  that  there  were  not  more 
fields  of  labor  open  to  women  who  are  thrown  upon 
their  own  resources.  Do  not  think  that  I  belong  to 
that  class  who  advocate  woman's  rights,  and  who  think 
her  place  is  in  the  pulpit,  in  the  halls  of  legislation,  in 
the  offices  of  government,  or  at  the  polls.  All  these 
things  are  certainly  out  of  her  sphere,  for  many  rea 
sons,  and  one,  particularly.  Although  the  intellect 
of  women  is  frequently  of  a  high  order,  still  they  lack 
that  strength  of  mind,  that  comprehensiveness  and 
power  of  concentration,  that  rank  man  highest  in  the 
intellectual  scale.  It  is  true,  there  are  occasionally 
women  of  that  masculine  power  of  mind,  which  makes 
her  prominent  in  all  she  undertakes ;  but  here,  in  my 
opinion,  she  destroys  the  loveliness  of  her  character, 
and  the  feminine  softness  which  makes  woman  so  dear 
to  your  sex  is  lost,  and  then,  who  would  envy  her  her 
high  position?  But  there  are  ways  and  means  by 
which  the  condition  of  the  sex  could  be  vastly  im 
proved,  without  destroying  one  atom  of  the  gentle 
ness  and  modesty  of  her  nature." 

"  Your  argument  is  unexceptionable,  madam,  and  I 
am  not  without  hope,  that,  in  this  age  of  improve 
ment,  something  may  be  found,  some  philosopher's 
stone,  capable  of  transmuting  all  her  bright  qualities 
into  gold." 


10* 


HO  WAY-MARKS   IN  THE 

"And  what  do  you  think  of  all  this,  Miss  Walton  ?" 
asked  Octave,  in  a  low  tone. 

"  I  have  no  doubt  your  mother  takes  a  correct  view 
of  this  subject,  as  she  does  of  every  other  she  touches 
upon." 

"Well,  I  beg  leave  to  differ  with  all  of  you,"  said 
cousin  John.  "  Women  have  now  by  far  too  many 
privileges.  They  break  our  hearts  as  carelessly  as 
they  would  an  old  time-worn  pie-plate.  They  think 
nothing  of  making  us  lay  awake  all  night,  fretting  and 
sobbing  over  their  heartlessness  and  inconstancy.  For 
my  part  I  don't  see  what  they  were  sent  on  earth  for, 
without  it  was  to  be  the  plague  of  all  honest,  soberly 
disposed  men's  lives." 

"What  treason,"  I  exclaimed.  "I  revolt  against 
it  in  the  name  of  my  slandered  sex." 

"  Oh,  you  know  I  excuse  you,  as  a  matter  of  course ! 
I  should  not  think  of  classing  you  with  the  generality 
of  your  sex." 

"No,  I  wont  let  you  flatter  me  thus.  I  wont  let 
you  coax  me  into  compliance  with  your  treasonable 
doctrines.  If  I  did,  doubtless,  I  should  be  the  first 
one  to  suffer  by  it,  and  I  wish  you  to  remember,  John, 
I  shall  warn  all  the  young  ladies  about  you,  particu 
larly  pretty  little  Kate  Kennett." 

"  Now  don't,  pray  don't.  Indeed  I  will  retract  all 
I  have  said,  if  you  will  forgive  me  this  once." 

"Don't  promise  rashly,  Marcia.  Try  him  first," 
said  Mr.  Woodville,  laughing. 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER.  Ill 

"  Well,  rebel,  I  will  try  you,  and  beware  how  you 
transgress  again.  I  shall  not  easily  pardon  a  second 
sin,  I  assure  you." 

"Marcia,  how  well  you  look  to-night,"  said  little 
Flora.  "I  have  not  seen  you  in  such  spirits  since 
your  sickness.  I  do  think  you  will  soon  be  well 
enough  to  race  with  me  in  the  avenue." 

"I  hope  so,  indeed,  Flora,  but  I  must  confess  I 
don't  feel  much  like  it  now." 

"  Flora  is  right,"  said  Mrs.  Woodville,  affectionately 
passing  her  hand  over  the  thick  masses  of  my  hair. 
"  I  knew  our  little  girl  only  wanted  change  of  com 
pany.  She  could  not  help  but  weary  of  such  plain 
country  people  as  we  are." 

I  looked  up,  at  this  allusion  to  the  pleasure  I  had 
experienced  in  the  society  of  the  new  teacher,  and  met 
the  earnest  gaze  of  his  eyes  fastened  upon  me.  I 
know  not  what  had  such  an  effect  upon  me,  but  I  know 
I  blushed,  and  quickly  turned  my  head.  I  said  to  Mrs. 
Woodville, — 

"Nay,  nay,  dear  friend,  you  wrong  me  there,  I 
could  be  nothing  short  of  ungrateful,  if  it  were  pos 
sible  for  me  to  weary  of  you.  'Tis  true  I  long  for  the 
dear  ones  who  are  bound  to  me  by  the  ties  of  blood, 
but  do  not  think,  however  far  from  you  I  may  go,  I 
shall  ever  forget  you.  I  feel  that  with  me  'tis 

"  Deatli  alone  remembers  not." 


112  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

"  What  do  you  think  the  doctor  told  me  about  you, 
to-day  ?  He  said  he  believed  you  would  be  able  to 
start  about  the  middle  or  last  of  April,  though  he 
thinks  May  would  be  the  pleasantest  month  for  you," 
said  Mr.  Woodville. 

"  Oh,  how  glad  I  shall  be  when  the  happy  moment 
arrives,"  said  I,  clasping  my  hands  together  in  an 
ecstasy  of  delight,  as  I  sat  dreaming  of  my  mother's 
embrace,  and  heard  her  words  of  joyous  welcome. 

"Miss  "Walton  has  been  ill?"  asked  Harry  Percy, 
in  a  tone  of  interest. 

"  Oh,  very  ill,"  said  Mr.  Woodville.  "  Indeed,  at 
one  time  we  feared  we  should  lose  her,  but  we-  have 
now  every  hope  that  her  youth,  and  a  good  constitu 
tion,  will  triumph  over  disease."  • 

"What  was  the  cause  of  her  illness?"  he  asked 
pointedly. 

Mr.  Woodville  paused  a  moment  before  replying. 
Then  he  said — 

"  A  very  high  fever  at  first,  followed  by  prostration 
so  great,  that  I  feared  nothing  short  of  a  miracle  would 
rally  her  from  it." 

Harry  Percy  looked  at  me  kindly,  pityingly,  and  all 
at  once  it  occurred  to  me  that  I  had  seen  him  before, 
but  when  or  where  I  could  not  remember.  Of  one 
thing  I  was  convinced,  however,  and  that  was,  that 
the  family  wished  every  one  to  remain  in  ignorance  of 
the  caus*e  of  my  illness,  and  I  mentally  resolved  to 
keep  the  secret  faithfully,  since,  by  betraying  it,  I- 


LIFE   OF  A   WANDERER.  113 

•would  expose  to  the  view  of  the  curious,  a  dark  spot, 
they  were  naturally  anxious  to  hide. 

The  evening  passed  pleasantly  away,  and  when  we 
separated,  we  were  mutually  pleased  with  each  other. 
In  fact  the  coming  of  the  stranger  in  our  midst,  formed 
a  valuable  acquisition  to  the  family  party,  and  my 
mind  dwelt  upon  him,  more,  perhaps,  than  was  justi 
fiable.  Still  I  could  not  divest  myself  of  the  idea  that 
I  had  somewhere  seen  him  before,  and  like  the  vague 
remembrances  of  a  dream,  I  connected  him  with  my 
distant  home.  I  noticed,  when  Octave  first  presented 
him  to  me,  a  strange  look  of  surprise  and  interest  in 
his  face,  which  he  at  the  same  time  vainly  strove  to 
dissemble.  At  length,  wearied  with  my  cogitations,  I 
fell  asleep  and  dreamed ;  and  that  which  I  saw  in  my 
dream  was  so  singular  that  I  will  repeat  it. 

Methought  I  was  in  a  large  ship,  in  the  middle  of 
the  ocean,  and  I  was  the  only  passenger.  The  captain 
and  his  officers  were  preparing  to  meet  a  terrific  storm 
that  was  threatening  us,  and  the  sailors  were  rushing 
wildly  to  and  fro,  to  execute  the  orders  of  their  supe 
riors.  I  felt  no  fear,  for  all  around  me  were  mighty 
pillars  of  marble,  which  seemed  to  me  to  form  a  bul 
wark,  of  strong  defence,  that  even  old  ocean  could  not 
harm.  I  trusted  in  them  implicitly,  and  sat  looking 
at  them  with  much  of  the  same  faith  with  which  the 
repentant  sinner  views  the  Cross  of  Christ.  But,  lo, 
in  the  midst  of  my  fancied  security,  while  fhe  wind 
howled,  and  the  waves  rose  mountain  high,  there  came 


114  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

from  the  bosom  of  the  deep  a  great  white  being.  His 
face  shone  like  the  sun.  His  stature  was  mighty. 
With  a  great  sword  he  cut  down  the  pillars  which  had 
been  my  defence,  and  one  after  another  cast  them 
into  the  sea.  Oh,  htfw  desolate,  how  desponding  I 
was  at  that  moment,  when  what  I  had  trusted  in  was 
thus  rudely  torn  away.  But  suddenly  the  white  being 
raised  to  heaven  his  hand,  and  said,  in  tones  of  pity 
and  love,  "Trust  thou  in  God."  I  looked  again.  He 
was  gone,  and  amid  the  howling  of  the  storm  the  ship 
dashed  on,  and  the  giant  waves  washed  over  the  decks, 
wetting  me  to  the  skin.  A  chill,  as  of  death,  passed 
over  me,  and  I  awoke,  trembling  with  an  indefinable 
feeling  of  terror.  I  tried  to  reason  with  myself,  and 
remember  it  was  only  a  dream,  and  at  last  I  fell 
asleep,  and  the  self-same  vision  presented  itself  before 
me,  even  more  vividly  than  before.  I  can  remember 
it  now,  as  I  write,  as  clearly  as  though  it  were  only  a 
moment  ago*  I  dreamed  it,  and  I  am  superstitious  enough 
to  believe  it  was  sent  to  me  as  a  warning  from  God. 

In  the  morning,  when  I  awoke,  I  resolved  to  tell 
Mr.  Woodville  my  vision,  and  get  him  to  interpret  it 
to  me.  I  accordingly  took  my  breakfast,  and  having 
allowed  Susan,  my  dressing  maid,  to  attire  me,  I  went 
out  to  seek  him.  He  was  sitting  in  the  porch,  read 
ing,  and  as  I  took  my  seat  beside  him,  he  welcomed 
me  with  kind  smiles,  and  inquiries  after  my  health, 
and  taking  my  hand  in  his,  he  pressed  it  tenderly. 


LIFE   OF   A  WANDERER.  115 

"Marcia,"  said  he,  with  an  anxious  look,  "how  is 
this  ?  I  find  you  feverish  this  morning." 

"  I  had  such  a  singular  dream  last  night,  and  I 
came  to  you  to  interpret  it,"  I  replied. 

"  What,  my  child,  have  you  so  much  faith  in  my 
wisdom  ?" 

"I  have,  indeed." 

"  Since  when  have  I  acquired  such  majesty  in  your 
eyes?" 

"I  know  not  any  particular  period.  Indeed,  it 
seems  to  me  I  always  felt  it." 

"Let  me  hear  your  dream,"  he  said. 

I  repeated  it,  word  for  word,  as  I  have  written  it. 
The  old  man  sat  quietly  musing  for  a  long  time  after 
I  had  finished.  At  last  he  said — 

"  That  it  was  true  he  could  divine  the  dream.  The 
ocean  upon  which  the  ship  was  launched,  was  the 
ocean  of  life.  The  captain  and  sailors  were  the 
virtues  and  passions,  who  alternately  sought  to  guide 
me.  The  pillars  of  marble  to  which  I  trusted,  were 
many  and  dear  friends,  to  whom  my  affections  clung, 
and  upon  whom  I  leaned  for  support,  love  and  pro- 
tection.  The  great  white  being  was  the  angel  of  God. 
By  his  action  he  proved  to  me  how  vain  it  was  to 
trust  in  aught  that  this  earth  can  give,  and  how  im 
possible  it  was  to  gain  heaven,  till  all  earthly  affec 
tions  are  uprooted.  He  pointed  upward,  and  told  me 
of  the  Friend  who  was  able  and  willing  to  defend  me. 
The  wild  dashing  of  the  ship  was  what  was  to  be 


116  WAY-MAKES   IN  THE 

expected.  The  storm  that  surrounded  me,  had  been 
the  lot  of  many  another  -way-worn  and  weary  pilgrim. 
I  must  expect  to  meet*  them,  and  obey  the  divine 
voice  that  spoke  in  my  dream.  I  must  "trust  in 
God." 

I  felt  that  there  was  the  impress  of  truth  in  all  that 
Mr.  Woodville  said,  and  I  returned  to  my  room  to 
ponder  in  silence  upon  this  call  that  God  had  given 
me  in  a  dream.  It  may  be  readily  supposed  that  the 
impression  made  by  it  was  deep  and  lasting,  and  within 
the  chambers  of  my  heart  the  blessed  spirit  of  God 
wrestled  with  me  and  exhorted  me  to  repentance. 

That  evening  I  yielded  again  to  Mrs.  Woodville's 
solicitations,  and  joined  the  family  circle  in  the  parlor. 
The  conversation  was  bright,  cheerful  and  animated, 
and  was  prolonged  to  a  late  hour.  There  were  mo 
ments  when  I  fancied  that  Harry  Percy  could  be  ter 
ribly  sarcastic  in  his  opposition  to  what  he  believed 
erroneous  ideas,  but  his  raillery  was  of  that  polished 
kind  that  called  forth  no  emotion  of  anger.  He 
thought  slavery  a  sin,  and  condemned  it  as  a  blot  on 
the  national  escutcheon.  Octave,  on  the  contrary, 
warmly  upheld  the  system,  declaring  it  to  have  origin 
ated  in  a  wise  ordination  of  Providence.  "  The  stran 
ger  within  thy  gates,"  he  believed  to  be  the  slaves  of 
the  olden  time ;  thus  proving  that  the  Bible  counte 
nanced  slavery.  He  also  called  attention  to  the  com 
fortable  condition  of  the  slaves,  compared  to  that  of 
the  free  black  population,  or  even  the  lower  classes  of 


LIFE   OF   A  WANDERER.  117 

whites,  at  the  North,  and  quoted  in  favor  of  his  argu 
ment  the  favorite  by-word  of  the  slaves  themselves, 
"  as  wretched  as  a  free  nigger." 

Mr.  Percy  said — 

"  It  is  true,  as  you  say ;  there  is  great  misery  at 
the  North,  and  much  of  it,  it  is  impossible  to  avoid. 
The  constant  influx  of  foreign  paupers,  thrown  destitute 
upon  our  shores,  makes  misery  and  want,  that,  labor  as 
we  may,  we  cannot  entirely  alleviate.  But  the  great 
evil  in  slavery  I  conceive  to  be  in  the  unlimited  power 
the  master  has  over  the  slave.  If  he  be  a  tyrant,  he 
can  exercise  the  most  brutal  cruelty  to  the  poor  crea 
tures  who  are  his  property,  and  they  have  no  redress. 
He  can  make  life  a  burthen  to  them,  too  intolerable  to 
be  borne,  and  at  the  same  time  they  may  have  done 
nothing  to  deserve  such  cruelty  at  his  hands." 

"  I  acknowledge  all  you  say  to  be  quite  true,  Mr. 
Percy  ;  but  let  me  ask  you  one  question.  Have  you 
never  met  with  tyranny  at  the  North  ?  Have  there 
not  been  cases  there  where  children  of  both  sexes  have 
been  bound  out  in  families,  who  have  daily  been  tor 
tured  and  goaded  with  the  lash,  and  nearly  starved,  to 
satisfy  a  caprice  on  the  part  of  master  or  mistress  ? 
Have  not  poor  children,  scarcely  covered  with  rags  to 
protect  them  from  the  chilling  blasts  of  winter,  been 
sent  into  the  streets  to  scrub  the  door-steps,  while  their 
hands  nearly  froze  as  they  performed  their  labor  ?  I 
do  not  say  this  is  the  general  feature  of  the  North. 
Far  from  it.  I  only  assert  that  these  cases  are  facts 
11 


118  WAY-MARKS   IN    THE 

•which  I  have  gleaned  from  actual  observation,  and  I 
solemnly  assert  that  the  cases  where  a  slaveholder 
abuses  his  slaves  are  equally  rare.  Does  not  your 
own  good  sense  teach  you  that  it  is  our  interest  to  be 
kind  and  careful  of  them  ?  They  are  our  property ; 
if  we  do  not  make  them  comfortable  and  provide  for 
their  wants,  they  depreciate  in  value.  No  man,  with 
the  common  dictates  of  humanity,  would  abuse  his 
horse,  neither  would  he  abuse  his  still  more  valuable 
property,  his  slave." 

"  I  do  not  deny  that  there  is  truth  in  what  you  say, 
but  still  it  does  not  prove  that  the  system  is  right. 
Man  has  no  power,  human  or  divine,  to  hold  his  fellow 
man  in  bondage.  If  you  admit  that  blacks  have  souls, 
you  must,  to  a  certain  extent,  place  them  on  a  level 
with  yourself.  What  says  our  Constitution  ?  '  That 
all  men  are  born  free  and  equal.'  And  is  this  freedom  ? 
Is  this  equality — to  traffic  in  human  flesh,  to  buy  and 
sell  the  being  that  God  has  endowed  with  an  immortal 
soul,  a  spark  struck  from  his  own  Divine  nature  ?  Nay, 
if  this  be  freedom,  it  were  better  far  to  live  the  fawn 
ing  subject  of  royalty — the  mere  creature  of  the 
crowned-puppet  that  they  call  a  King. 

"What,  then,  would  you  have  us  do  to  remedy  the 
evil  ?  Suppose  we  grant  freedom  to  the  slaves,  and 
permit  them  to  go  forth  as  they  list,  what  would  be 
come  of  them  ?  Do  you  not  know  they  would  die  out 
before  the  faces  of  the  whites  ?  Does  not  experience, 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER.  119 

in  the  fate  of  the  hapless  Indians,  prove  to  you  how 
completely  all  such  races  must  be  exterminated?" 

"  You  quite  mistake  me,  if  you  suppose  me  to  be 
one  of  those  hot-headed  abolitionists,  who  want  the 
slaves  to  be  turned  loose  upon  society,  without  any 
preparation — far  from  it.  In  my  opinion,  the  only 
just  mode  of  proceeding  would  be  to  fix  a  time,  and 
let  it  be  fifty  years  distant,  if  you  choose,  and  declare 
that  upon  that  day  your  slaves  shall  all  be  free.  Com 
mence  now  to  educate  the  race,  both  fathers  and  chil 
dren.  Strive  to  raise  them  from  the  darkness  of  ig 
norance,  and  exalt  their  hopes  and  feelings." 

"  That  is  all  very  well  to  talk  about,  Mr.  Percy,  but 
if  you  knew  as  much  as  I  do  about  the  blacks,  you 
would  be  convinced  of  the  fallacy  of  your  theory. 
Educate  the  black — exalt  his  ideas !  Why,  he  has  no 
intellect  to  take  an  education,  and  no  mental  power  to 
apply  it  when  taken ;  and  as  to  his  ideas,  he  has  none 
to  exalt.  An  educated  darky  would  be  a  phenomenon 
of  nature.  I  never  saw  one,  North  or  South.  Speak 
candidly,  now — did  you  ?" 

"  I  have,  indeed,  seen  many." 

"And  are  you  sure  they  were  blacks?  Were  they 
not  rather  a  mixture  of  the  two  races?" 

"I  can't  say;  but  I  rather  think  they  were  part 
white." 

"Ah!  now,  we  have  it.  These  men  that  you  speak 
of,  that  had  sense  and  education,  derived  it  most  un 
doubtedly  from  a  white  ancestor.  Believe  me,  you 


120  WAY-MAKES   IN   THE 

little  know  the  character  of  the  blacks.  They  are 
totally  unfitted  by  nature  to  provide  for  themselves, 
and  nothing  do  they  so  cordially  hate  as  any  kind  of 
mental  application.  'Tis  true,  they  are  affectionate, 
and  become  very  much  attached  to  us,  and  so  do  we  to 
them;  but  they  have  many  bad  traits  of  character 
that  call  forth  all  our  patience,  and,  indeed,  seem  to ' 
merit  extreme  severity. 

"  There  is,  perhaps,  justice  in  all  you  say,  but  still 
with  all  my  northern  prejudices  fresh  around  me,  you 
can't  expect  to  convince  me.  It  is  quite  likely  if  I 
had  been  born  and  brought  up  in  the  midst  of  slavery, 
I  should  have  been,  like  yourself,  blind  to  its  evils,  and 
none  can  know  better  than  myself  how  to  sympathize 
with  the  weakness  which  has  been  engendered  by  early 
associations.  But,  let  us  change  the  subject,  since  it 
is  apparent  we  are  both  fixed  in  our  own  way  of  think 
ing.  I  am  sure  the  rest  of  the  party  must  think  us 
very  prosy  individuals,  and  selfish  in  the  bargain." 

"I,  for  one,  was  very  much  interested,"  said  Mrs. 
Woodville. 

"  I  should  be  better  pleased  to  have  Marcia  play 
some  for  us,  if  it  would  not  fatigue  her  too  much," 
said  Mr.  "Woodville. 

The  rest  of  the  party  eagerly  joined  in  the  request. 
I  said — 

"  I  play  and  sing  so  poorly  that  I  fear  it  will  be  a 
cause  of  annoyance  to  Mr.  Percy,  who  has  just  come 
from  the  great  American  centre  of  musical  talent, 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER.  121 

New  York.  He  is  doubtless  a  severe  critic,  and  fear 
of  his  ridicule  steals  away  my  voice. 

"  Indeed,  Miss  Walton,  you  do  me  injustice  to  sup 
pose  that  I  could  ridicule  you.  I  assure  you,  the  fash 
ionable  opera  style  of  singing  is  very  much  out  of  my 
taste.  I  certainly  prefer  the  sweet  old-time  music. 
There  is  far  more  melody  in  it,  and  it  is  inexpressibly 
dear  to  me,  on  account  of  the  fond  memories  of  home 
it  awakens  in  my  breast.  Pray  sing  without  fear  of 
me." 

And  play  and  sing  I  did,  with  an  energy  and  power 
of  execution  I  had  not  felt  for  months.  I  ran  through 
all  the  favorite  airs  from  the  operas,  polkas,  waltzes, 
marches,  preludes,  symphonies,  &c.,  and  wound  up  with 
singing  all  the  old-fashioned  songs  I  could  remember. 
I  forgot  a  critic's  ear  was  listening  to  my  performance, 
but  I  sang  from  the  heart,  and  I  felt  through  its  every 
fibre  the  truth  of  the  words,  "  Home,  sweet  home,  there 
is  no  place  like  home." 

At  last  I  stopped,  and  every  one  present  had  some 
word  of  praise,  saving  and  excepting  only  Harry 
Percy.  I  felt  piqued,  and  looked  up  to  examine  his 
countenance,  and  see  the  perfect  indifference  I  fancied 
must  be  there,  but  I  was  struck  with  the  hopeless  de 
jection  of  his  attitude.  He  sat  resting  his  head  on 
his  hand,  and  gazing  on  the  floor  with  such  sad  listless- 
ness  of  manner  as  touched  my  heart  with  pity.  Ah ! 
I  exclaimed  to  myself,  this  man  has  some  secret  cause 
for  grief.  He  is  unhappy.  Oh !  would  that  mine  were 
11* 


122  WAY-MARKS   IN   TUB 

the  magic  power  to  chase  all  sorrow  from  his  brow. 
Dangerous  interest!  Ah!  beware,  fair  daughter  of 
earth,  when  thy  heart  feels  pity  such  as  this.  Thou 
steyest,  unknown  to  thyself,  be  forging  chains  for  thine 
own  freedom. 

I  went  to  my  room,  sat  down  and  wrote  the  follow 
ing  lines : 

Why  sittest  thou  so  lonely, 

When  all  around  are  gay  ? 
Is  it  thy  heart,  thine  only, 

That  feels  not  music's  sway  ? 
Was  there  no  charm  to  lull  thee, 

When  Marcia  sang  of  home  ? 
Hast  thou  lost  that  love  so  holy, 

As  leaves  thy  heart  alone  ? 

Or  hast  thou  cause  for  sorrow  ? 

Dost  thou  at  hour  of  night, 
Look  sadly  for  the  morrow, 

That  brings  to  thee  no  light? 
Hast  thou  buried  all  that  loved  thee, 

Deep  in  the  silent  grave  ? 
Or  have  the  false  deceived  thee, 

And  betrayed  the  trust  you  gave? 

Oh  !  tell  me  why  so  joyless, 

Droops  thy  majestic  brow  ? 
Is  thy  sun  of  life  so  rayless  ? 

Thy  heart  all  darkness  now  1 
Oh  !  tell  me  what  thy  sadness  ? 

Relieve  thy  burdened  breast ; 
I'll  inspire  thre  with  gladness, 

A  nd  soothe  thee  into  rest. 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER.  *         123 

I  know  not  why  I  ask  thee, 

Thy  secret  wo  to  tell; 
Put  gladly  do  I  task  thee 

Thy  sorrow  to  dispel. 
In  childhood's  early  hour, 

1  grieved  for  other's  pain, 
And  1  feel  for  thee  the  power 

To  weep  and  grieve  again. 


One  fine,  lovely  Sabbath  morning,  we  arose,  and 
taking  an  early  breakfast,  started  for  church,  which  was 
twelve  miles  distant.  It  was  the  first  time  I  had  ac 
companied  the  family  since  my  illness.  The  air  was 
mild,  and  came  laden  through  the  windows  of  the  car 
riage  with  the  breath  of  spring  and  the  perfume  of  wild 
flowers.  Our  road  lay  through  a  fertile  and  highly 
cultivated  part  of  the  country,  and  as  we  were  drawn 
rapidly  along  by  a  pair  of  swift  horses,  I  felt  that  the 
shadows  which  had  so  long  been  darkening  my  path 
were  being  dispelled  by  the  brightness  of  all  around 
me.  Octave  and  Harry  Percy  were  in  a  buggy,  drawn 
by  the  superb  grays,  and  rode  in  front  of  us,  occasion- 
^lly  stopping  beside  us  to  exchange  compliments  and 
smiles.  Mr.  Woodville  and  cousin  John  rode  in  a 
buggy  behind  us,  and  thus  our  little  party  wound  their 
way  to  the  house  of  God. 

Arrived  at  the  church,  we  alighted  and  entered, 
noiselessly.  A  strange  feeling  of  solemnity  came 
over  me  as  I  took  my  seat  in  Mrs.  Woodvillc's  pew, 


124  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

but  it  was  not  to  be  wondered  at,  when  the  horrors  I 
had  passed  through  were  recalled.  And  then,  again, 
during  the  coming  week,  I  expected  to  leave  Georgia, 
never  to  return  to  it,  perhaps, — never  again  to  sit  in 
the  old  church,  and  join  in  its  time-hallowed  worship. 
It  was  the  spirit  of  God  that  strove  with  me  then, 
warning  me  to  forsake  the  world  and  all  its  vanities, 
and  trust  in  God.  I  bowed  my  heart  in  repentance, 
and  when  we  came  to  the  confession,  and  repeated 
the  words — "We  have  erred  and  strayed  from  thy 
ways  like  lost  sheep ;  we  have  followed  too  much  the 
devices  and  desires  of  our  own  hearts,"  oh,  then  it 
was  that  the  conviction  seized  me  how  deeply  guilty  I 
had  been.  I  remembered  the  peculiar  manner  in 
which  God  had  called  me  to  himself,  and  I  found  I 
had  been  giving  my  heart,  and  its  thoughts  and  feel 
ings,  to  the  creature,  and  had  banished  from  His 
shrine  the  creator  of  my  life.  In  a  word,  upon  close 
self-examination,  I  read  a  secret  before  unknown  to 
me.  Of  its  nature  I  shall  speak  more  hereafter. 

The  Reverend  Mr.  W preached  on  that  morn 
ing  a  sermon  from  the  text, — "  Give  thy  heart  to 
God."  He  went  on,  in  the  most  lucid  manner,  to 
explain  what  this  giving  of  the  heart  meant.  He  saw 
there  were  too  many  Christians  who  gave  their  devo 
tion  and  prayers  to  God,  who  relieved  the  poor,  and 
were  always  foremost  in  works  of  love ;  who  were,  in 
fact,  or  seemed  to  be,  the  pillars  of  the  church,  and 
yet  who  were  in  reality  on  the  brink  of  a  precipice, 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER.  125 

•with  only  one  step  between  them  and  eternal  death. 
"These  persons,"  said  he,  "who  lull  themselves  in 
fancied  security,  and  who  believe  heaven  sure,  are 
those  who  give  their  hearts  to  God  with  a  reservation. 
There  is  for  them  one  darling  sin,  one  cherished  fault, 
one  secret  passion  that  they  cannot  sacrifice,  and  they 
believe  that  their  devotion  in  all  other  matters  will 
ensure  their  pardon  for  this ;  but,  alas,  wo  to  them ; 
their  condition  is  far  worse  than  that  of  the  hardened 
sinner,  for  he  may  be  awakened  to  his  danger.  They 
cling  to  this  secret  sin.  It  has  become  a  part  of  their 
nature.  They  cannot  exist  without  it.  Many  of  them, 
indeed,  are  ignorant  that  it  is  a  sin.  It  has  become 
so  natural  and  so  necessary,  that  they  feel  as  if  death 
would  ^nsue  should  they  try  to  uproot  it.  And  thus 
they  die  and  go  to  judgment,  all  .unprepared  for  the 
stern,  All-seeing  eyes  which  have  long  since  penetrated 
the  deceitful  heart,  and  awarded  it  its  doom.  Let. me 
entreat  you  then  to  search  minutely  the  hidden  im 
pulses  of  your  lives,  and  pray  humbly  and  fervently 
to  God  to  preserve  you  from  secret  faults." 

I  pondered  deeply  on  this  sermon,  all  the  way  home, 
and  as  I  sat  at  my  casement  that  evening,  looking 
forth  upon  the  starry  night,  sad,  solemn  thoughts 
came  over  me.  The  spirit  in  my  heart  said — "  give 
thy  heart  to  God,"  and  I  asked  myself  if  I  could  do 
this  unreservedly  ?  If  I  could  renounce  all  the  plea 
sures  and  affections  of  life,  in  obedience  to  that  Divine 
voice?  If  I  could  bow  in  submission  to  that  Will, 


126  WAY-MARKS    IN    THE 

that  ordered  all  things  wisely  and  well  ?  If,  in  short, 
I  had  a  feeling,  a  passion,  an  earth-born  interest,  a 
secret-dweller  in  my  breast,  which  would  make  me 
shrink  from  yielding  myself  up  a  willing  sacrifice  on 
the  altar  of  God,  to  be  Chastened  as  He  pleased  ? 
And  in  that  quiet  hour,  there  came  a  light  as  it  were 
from  heaven,  and  shone  upon  me ;  and  I  saw  that  my 
spirit  was  earth-bound ;  that  my  heart  had,  alas,  its 
secret  fault. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

"  The  sun  is  bright — its  golden  rays 

Gild  mountain  top  and  flower  ; 
O'er  rock,  and  wave,  and  vale  it  plays, 

From  morn  till  evening  hour. 
Eut  oh  !  no  beauty  in  its  beams 

My  weary  heart  can  see, 
While  rocks,  and  vales,  and  glancing  streams, 

Keep  me  away  from  thee. 

The  waves  to  others  wear  a  light 

More  glorious  than  the  sky; 
To  me  earth's  hues  are  only  bright, 

Reflected  from  thine  eye. 
The  world  may  deem  me  dull  and  sad — 

I  care  not  how  that  be  ; 
I  never  can  or  will  he  glad, 

Mother,  away  from  thce." 

Was  this  reality?  Was  I,  indeed,  seated  in  the 
cars  with  Mr.  Woodville  beside  me,  and  little  Flora, 
and  good,  faithful  Susan  in  front  ?  Yes,  it  was  all 


LIFE    OF    A   WANDERER.  127 

true ;  I  was  on  my  way,  and  in  a  little  while  I  should 
reach  my  native  city.  I  should  see  again  the  dear 
ones  I  loved  so  fondly.  But,  alas,  how  different,  how 
changed  was  all  since  I  left  them.  I  had  gone  to  the 
South  to  seek  for  health.  I  was  returning  from  it  a 
weak,  fragile  creature,  that  could  not  even  do  without 
a  nurse,  for  such,  disguise  the  fact  as  you  would, 
Susan  certainly  was,  though  Mr.  Woodville  perti 
naciously  persisted  in  calling  her  my  Abigail,  for  I 
don't  know  what  reason,  without  it  was  to  make  me 
believe  I  was  not  sick. 

We  reached  Charleston  and  took  passage  in  the 
steamship  Southerner,  for  New  York,  having  first 
telegraphed  to  my  mother,  when  she  might  expect  me 
home.  On  the  morning  of  the  third  day  we  reached 
our  destined  port  in  safety.  While  sitting  waiting  in 
the  ladies'  cabin,  for  Mr.  Woodville  to  go  after  a 
carriage,  a  lady,  dressed  in  deep  mourning,  ap 
proached  me,  holding  by  the  hand  a  little  boy.  She 
threw  back  her  veil. 

"  My  mother,  my  brother,"  I  exclaimed,  as  I  threw 
myself  into  her  extended  arms,  and  then  fondly 
clasped  my  brother  to  my  heart.  My  mother  said — 

"  Alas,  Marcia,  my  child,  my  darling,  how  pale 
you  are  looking." 

"  Oh,  I  am  much  better  now,  mother.  I  have  been 
sick,  but  now  I  feel  indeed  like  another  being.  This 
is  Flora  Gray  son,  mother,  one  of  my  little  pupils." 
My  mother  kissed  her.  "Now,  Benny,"  s&id  I, 


128  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

"here  is  a  little  girl  who  loves  you  dearly,  just  be 
cause  she  has  heard  me  talk  about  you." 

"  Then  you  did  not  forget  me,  Marcia  ?"  he  asked, 
at  the  same  time  kissing  little  Flora. 

"  How  can  you  ask  me  such  a  question,  you  blessed 
little  darling?  Why,  I  should  sooner  forget  to 
breathe." 

"  Ah,  but  you  have  been  with  such  nice  little  boys 
and  girls  at  the  South.  I  expect  they  were  a  great 
deal  better  than  I,"  said  he,  archly. 

"  And  so  you  were  jealous  of  them  ?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  thought  they  might  be  very 
good,  and  you  would  perhaps  love  them  much  more." 

"  Are  you  satisfied  now,  little  rogue,  that  I  don't 
love  any  body  more  ?"  I  asked,  pressing  him  fondly 
to  my  heart. 

"  Yes,  I  know  now  I  was  foolish  to  think  you  could 
forget  me.  I  know  I  am  very  dear  to  you,  because 
you  say  so,  sweet  sister." 

How  gratifying  to  my  sad  spirit  was  this  tribute  of 
love  and  confidence.  Mothers  and  sisters,  I  entreat 
you  to  act  to  your  children  and  brothers  in  such  a 
manner  that  they  may  learn  the  beauties  of  truth 
from  your  example.  How  holy  is  the  sight  of  a 
young  child,  who  nobly  and  fearlessly  speaks  the 
truth  on  all  occasions,  and  who  scorns  all  subter 
fuge — who  would  far  rather  confess -the  evil  done, 
and  be  punished  for  it,  than  rest  with  the  stain  of 
falsehood  on  its  infant  lips. 


LIFE   OF  A   WANDERER.  129 

Mr.  Woodville  returned,  and  warmly  greeted  my 
mother  and  Benny,  and  then  we  left  the  boat,  and 
having  had  our  baggage  strapped  on  the  carriage,  we 
drove  rapidly  to  our  home,  which  is  in  the  up-town 
part  of  New  York.  Mother  insisted  that  Mr.  Wood 
ville  and  Flora  should  stay  with  us,  and  after  a  long 
argument  they  consented. 

"Ah,"  said  he,  "Mrs.  Walton,  if  you  only  knew 
what  a  siege  I  have  had  with  that  girl.  She  is  as 
obstinate  and  crooked  as,  I  don't  know  what.  She 
has  done  little  else  but  fret  to  come  home  ever  since 
she  left  you,  and  that  was  ungrateful,  to  say  the  least 
of  it." 

"  Now,  don't  say  ungrateful,  Mr.  Woodville.  I  am 
sure  I  was  not  that." 

"  You  are  a  saucy  minx,  and  I  suppose  we  shall 
have  plenty  of  airs  and  graces,  now  you  have  got 
home  to  your  mother,  but  I  shall  remove  you  from  her 
in  a  very  little  while,  miss,  for  it  is  my  intention  to 
start  for  Saratoga  in  a  month  or  so,  and  I  am  re 
solved  to  take  you  with  me.  How  do  you  like  that?" 

"  I  don't  want  to  go,  indeed,  I  don't.  I  don't  want 
to  leave  my  mother." 

"  Don't  want  to  go,  aye  ?  I  see  through  it,  as  plain 
as  day.  You  hate  me ;  you  can't  bear  the  sight  of 
me.  That  is  it." 

"  You  know  I  don't  hate  you,  Mr.  Woodville.    You 
know  that  I  think  you  one  of  the  dearest  friends  I 
have  got  on  earth." 
12 


130  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

"  Poh,  poh,  all  nonsense.  I  don't  believe  a  word  of 
it.  Nothing  but  flattery,  deceitful  minx." 

Here  a  very  significant  look  passed  between  him 
and  my  mother.  It  was  not  intended  for  my  eyes, 
but  I  understood  it. 

That  evening,  news  having  gone  forth  of  my  arrival, 
a  number  of  friends  came  to  see  me.  Among  them 
was  my  school-teacher  and  Mr.  Johnson,  an  old  friend 
of  my  father.  Miss  Staunton,  I  may  safely  say,  was 
delighted  to  see  me.  Mr.  Johnson,  a  tall,  slender 
man,  of  fifty,  with  as  many  curious  tricks  as  a  monkey, 
greeted  me  with  becoming  pleasure.  Mr.  Johnson 
was  known  and  dreaded  by  all  his  friends,  and  when 
he  began  to  tell  an  anecdote,  every  body  left  the 
room,  or  hastened  to  turn  the  conversation.  He 
asked  me  many  questions  about  the  South,  but,  gene 
rally  speaking,  he  answered  them  himself.  At  length, 
raising  his  voice,  he  commenced  to  tell  a  story  for  the 
edification  of  the  assembled  company. 

"  Now  that  you  are  all  here,  and  Marcia  has  come 
back,  I  will  tell  you  something  interesting  that  oc 
curred  some  twelve  years  ago,  when  I  was  in  New 
Orleans.  I  remember  that  I  went  one  day  to 
see ." 

"Yes,  we  have  heard  all  about  it  a  dozen  times," 
said  Miss  Staunton.  Marcia,  do  let  us  hear  if  you 
found  teaching  to  be  an  enviable  task." 

"  There  are  many  laborious  duties  in  the  life  of  a 
teacher,  yet  I  am  pleased  with  it  in  numerous  respects, 


LIFE   OF  A   WANDERER.  131 

for  I  think  in  imparting  instruction  to  others,  our  own 
minds  become  exalted,  refined  and  polished." 

"  Yet  it  is  a  vast  responsibility." 

"  Oh,  yes,  but  I  think  in  guiding  souls  to  heaven, 
our  hearts  become  purified  and  strengthened  for  the 
task,  and  we  are  insensibly  led  along  the  path  we  are 
pointing  out  to  others.  I  acknowledge  there  are  many 
difficulties  in  the  life  of  a  teacher,  and  many  trials  of 
patience.  Many  discouragements  that  weigh  upon 
the  heart,  and  make  her  task  heavy,  and  the  burden 
grievous  to  be  borne.  She  needs,  perhaps,  more  than 
any  other  person,  an  abiding  trust  in  that  God  who 
has  promised  never  to  forsake  the  helpless,  to  raise  up 
those  who  fall,  and  to  make  the  day  ever  sufficient  for 
the  strength."  - 

"  I  am  proud  of  you,  my  child,"  said  Miss  Staunton. 
"  This  is,  indeed,  sweet  fruit  to  gather  from  the  soil  I 
have  planted  and  nourished  with  such  tender  care. 
Dear  Marcia,  you  have  repaid  me  to-night  for  the 
labor  of  years.  Who  will  say  that  a  teacher  has  no 
blessings  to  counterbalance  all  the  evil  of  her  lot?" 

"It  must  be  certainly  pleasant,"  said  Mr.  Johnson, 
"  to  find  that  Marcia  has  proved  so  dutiful,  but  for 
my  part,  I  must  say,  I  like  spirit.  I  remember  when 
I  was  a  boy,  I  was  considered  the  worst  child  in  the 
whole  school,  and  I  was  universally  acknowledged  by 
teachers  and  scholars  to  be  the  ring-leader.  Well, 
one  day  when  the  master  was  out ." 

"Marcia,  do  play  for  us,"  said  Miss  Staunton,  who 


132  WAY-MARKS   IN    THE 

had  an  unconquerable  aversion  to  friend  Johnson's 
long  stories,  and  invariably  made  it  a  point  to  nip 
them  in  the  bud. 

I  began  to  play.  Mr.  Johnson  looked  grave  for 
about  five  minutes.  Then  he  commenced  to  hum  an 
accompaniment  to  the  piece  I  was  playing,  in  such 
horrid  bad  time  that  I  was  forced  to  stop,  leaving  to 
him  the  honor  of  executing  the  piece. 

"Why  do  you  stop?"  he  asked,  in  the  most  uncon 
cerned  manner.  "  Oh,  I  see  how  it  is.  You  are 
fatigued  from  the  long  journey  you  have  taken.  Miss 
Staunton  should  have  known  better  than  to  ask  you 
to  play,  for  you  are  not  only  tired,  but  you  keep 
miserable  time,  and  your  voice  is  anything  but  mu 
sical.  I  had  a  sister  that  sang  as  badly  as  you,  and 
yet  she  would  not  be  convinced,  but  thought  she  had 
a  voice  like  a  nightingale.  One  night,  my  mother 
gave  a  large  party,  and  all  the  fashion  of  New  York 
was  there.  Let  me  see,  it  was  in  the  year  18 — ,  no 
that  could  not  have  been  the  year  either.  I  guess  it 
must  have  been  18 — .  I  was  younger  then  than  I  am 
now,  and ." 

Again  Miss  Staunton  made  a  desperate  effort,  and 
said, 

"  Do  you  remain  long  in  New  York,  Mr.  Wood- 
ville?" 

Poor  friend  Johnson  looked  daggers  at  first,  then 
he  gave  it  up  in  despair,  and  in  a  few  moments  he 
took  a  seat  on  the  sofa,  where  Flora  and  Benny  were 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER.  133 

carrying  on  a  nice  little  conversation  of  their  own,  and 
I  was  soon  satisfied,  by  the  expression  of  their  coun 
tenances,  that  he  was  exerting  himself  to  the  utmost 
to  make  them  as  miserable  as  possible. 

I  will  not  dwell  longer  on  the  events  of  this  period, 
for  two  months  slipped  away  almost  unperceived,  and 
the  time  arrived  for  us  to  start  on  our  Northern  tour. 
I  frequently  asked  Miss  Staunton  to  tell  me  of  whom  she 
had  spoken  in  the  postscript  of  her  letter,  but  for  some 
reason  inexplicable  to  me,  she  maintained  a  profound 
silence  upon  the  subject.  It  is  useless  for  me  to  enter 
into  detail,  and  explain  by  what  arguments  Mr.  "Wood- 
ville  prevailed  upon  my  mother  to  let  him  take  me  to 
Saratoga.  It  is  enough  to  say,  that  at  the  end  of  two 
months,  we  were  comfortably  fixed  at  the  United  States 
hotel,  in  a  handsome  suite  of  rooms,  and  daily  taking 
the  most  delightful  drives  through  the  beautiful  farm 
ing  country  that  surrounds  the  village.  I  believe  the 
water  did  me  some  good,  and  I  might  have  felt  happy, 
but  that  I  was  every  day  annoyed  t>y  some  ill-timed 
exclamation  of  pity,  from  some  ope  of  the  many  loun 
gers  about  the  hotel.  I  do  think  it  excessively  ill- 
bred,  to  comment,  in  the  presence  of  an  invalid,  upon 
their  delicate  appearance,  and  frail  hopes  of  life. 

Mr.  Woodville  was  ever  at  my  side  to  cheer  my 
hours  of  weakness,  and  in  pointing  out  to  me  the 
snares  and  pitfalls  of  life,  to  lead  me  to  a  serene  con 
templation  of  that  blessed  land  God  has  prepared  for 
12* 


134  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

His  children.  I  always  listened  to  him  with  attention, 
and  one  day  I  said  in  answer — 

"  What  you  tell  me  is  no  doubt  correct  and  true.  I 
feel  it,  and  yet  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  look  upon  it 
calmly.  I  feel  a  terror  of  death,  that  I  cannot  over 
come.  The  world  looks  bright  and  beautiful  to  me, 
and  I,  who  have  never  tasted  of  its  pleasures  and  joys, 
save  on  such  a  limited  scale,  long  to  sip  of  that  cup  of 
pleasure  I  have  heard  so  glowingly  described,  even 
though  I  should  feel  certain  that  in  the  end  its  con 
tents  would  turn  to  gall  and  wormwood.  I  feel  within 
me  that  irresistible  desire  and  craving  for  life,  which 
is  in  fact  our  second  nature." 

"  It  may  be  perhaps  the  cravings  of  nature,  but  I 
would  think  it  more  just  to  say  it  was  the  promptings 
of  the  Evil  One,  who  seeks  to  win  you  from  that  straight 
narrow  way,  which  leads  its  followers  to  heaven.  But, 
believe  me,  dear  child,  the  first  sweetness  of  the  cup  is 
soon  forgotten,  amid  the  anguish  caused  by  the  bitter 
dregs.  Do  not  think  that  I  deny  the  possibility  of 
human  happiness.  *I  am  not  so  unjust.  Had  the  fair 
love  of  my  early  years  been  true,  I  should  have  been 
indeed  blessed  in  the  possession  of  her.  If  you,  Mar- 
cia,  had  loved  Octave  as  dearly,  as  fondly  as  he  loved 
you,  you  might  have  drank  sweet  draughts  of  the  pure 
fountain  of  wedded  love,  and  marriage  is  certainly  the 
highest  and  happiest  state  of  existence  permitted  to 
mortals  on  this  earth." 

"  t  can  well  believe  it,  and  you  must  not  chide  me 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER.  135 

when  I  confess  to  you,  that  I  have  sometimes  indulged 
in  dreams  of  what  my  feelings  would  have  been  had  I 
been  blessed  with  a  love  it  was  in  my  power  to  return, 
and  united  for  life  to  a  being  whose  thoughts,  im 
pulses  and  wishes  coincided  with  my  own.  When 
sometimes  I  see  the  happiness  of  others, — when  I  see 
the  gentle  wife  leaning  on  her  husband's  arm,  and 
looking  up  to  him  with  all  the  confiding  fondness  of 
devoted  affection ;  when  I  see  the  young  mother,  in 
the  full  ripeness  of  her  girlish  beauty,  holding  her  in 
fant  to  her  breast,  and  regarding  it  with  eyes  beautiful 
and  bright,  with  all  the  unutterable  tenderness  of 
maternal  love ;  oh,  chide  me  not  that  I  weep,  and  say 
I  am  an  alien  to  all  these  holy  emotions.  I  can  never 
be  a  wife  or  mother.  I  must  go  down  to  an  early 
grave,  and  the  heart  that  might  have  loved  fondly  and 
well,  must  cease  its  pulsations,  and  lie  cold  and  still 
within  me;  and  all  this  is  because  I  have  been  the 
victim  of  another's  crime." 

"And  do  you,  my  dear  child,  allow  this  to  fret 
you  ?  I  had  hoped  to  find  you  more  resigned.  But 
do  not  think  that  I  ever  forget  it,  or  cease  to  mourn 
that  you  are  forced  to  suffer  thus.  All  the  tender 
pity  and  countless  enjoyments  of  a  world  should  be 
yours,  if  they  were  in  my  power  to  bestow.  Do  not, 
dear  girl,  give  way  to  this  unhappiness.  Seek  rather 
to  raise  yourself  above  the  weakness  of  human  nature. 
It  does  seem  cruel  that  you  should  have  to  suffer  for 


136  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

others,  but  God  Kas  doubtless  permitted  it  for  a  wise 
and  good  purpose.  He  has  called  you  to  himself,  and 
that  which  if  e  offers  in  return  for  all  you  give  up  here, 
will  repay  you  amply.  Let  us  seek,  my  dear  girl,  to 
be  worthy  to  enter  the  kingdom  of  heaven ;  to  sit 
down  in  the  blessed  kingdom  of  Him  who  loves  us, 
and  has  called  us  both  in  an  especial  manner.  He 
loveth  whom  He  chasteneth,  and  though  the  way  may 
be  dark  and  stormy,  and  each  moment  we  are  tossed 
upon  life's  troubled  sea,  yet  if  we  trust  Him,  He  will 
never  forsake  us,  but  will  lead  us  with  a  father's  hand 
to  a  home  of  peace  and  security." 

"Dear  Mr.  Woodville,  I  know  I  am  blessed  with 
such  a  teacher  and  friend.  Pray  do  not  get  weary  of 
me,  and  think  me  incorrigible  if  I  do  not  act  in  all 
things  exactly  as  you  wish.  Would  that  I  could  profit 
better  by  all  your  kind  advice.  Indeed  I  will  try  to 
throw  off  this  spirit  of  rebellion  which  rises  within  me, 
and  urges  me  to  arraign  God  for  all  I  have  suffered. 
He  has  done  it  for  the  best,  and  I  will  strive  to  say — 
1  Thy  will  be  done.'  " 

"  Believe  me,  my  child,  if  you  will  humbly  pray  for 
strength,  you  will  receive  it.  But  you  must  pray  with 
faith.  I  remember  when  I  first  began  to  pray,  I  had 
no  just  idea  of  what  faith  was.  I  prayed  for  content 
ment  and  peace  of  mind  merely  out  of  curiosity,  and  I 
promised  myself  I  should  see  whether  God  would 
answer  my  prayer ;  but  one  day  I  came  across  a 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER.,  137 

hymn  in  the  prayer  hook,  that  opened  my  eyes  upon 
this  subject.  Doubtless  you  remember  the  lines, — 

'  Faith  is  the  Christian's  evidence, 

Of  things  unseen  by  mortal  eye; 
It  passes  all  the  bounds  of  sense, 

And  penetrates  the  inmost  sky  ' 

This  faith,  said  I,  is  what  I  want.  The  prayer  of 
faith  is  answered.  I  must  not  question  that  which  I 
do  not  understand,  but  give  myself  up,  in  all  humility, 
to  be  dealt  with  as  seemeth  Him  good.  Here,  then, 
was  the  great  secret,  and  when  this  barrier  was  broken 
down,  need  I  tell  you  how  all  the  pride  and  coldness 
of  my  nature  faded  away ;  how  I  knelt  and  fervently 
entreated  that  the  wounds  of  my  spirit  might  be 
healed  ?  I  did  not  ask  so  much  for  forgetfulness  of 
the  past,  for  although  she  was  false  to  me,  was  it  not 
better  far  to  remember  and  forgive,  than  seek  to  bury 
the  sting  and  let  it  rankle  in  my  heart  ? 

"  At  length,  I  gained  some  peace.  I  forgave  her  ; 
and,  perhaps,  my  greatest  fault  now  is,  that  I  have 
attributed  too  much  merit  to  the  pardon,  which  was 
wrung  from  me,  as  it  were,  by  years  of  bitter  anguish. 
But,  God  knows  the  misery  of  years,  a  blighted  man 
hood,  a  desolate,  sorrowful  old  age,  are  something  for 
a  poor  mortal  to  forgive ;  for,  as  you  well  know,  to 
love  those  who  love  us  is  human  and  natural,  but  to 
forgive  and  love  those  who  crush  us  with  their  false 
hoods,  is  not  merely  noble  and  just — it  is  divine." 

"  Do  not  say  your  old  age  is  desolate.     'Tis  true  it 


138  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

is  not  much  that  I  can  do  to  cheer  it,  but,  believe  me, 
that  little  shall  be  done  cheerfully,  and  will  spring 
from  the  purest  and  most  disinterested  affection." 

"  I  know  it,  my  dear  child,  and  the  consciousness  of 
your  love  is,  indeed,  a  solace  to  my  old  age.  I  have 
often  lately  thought  of  making  a  proposition  to  you, 
and  I  may  not,  perhaps,  find  a  more  suitable  opportu 
nity  than  the  present.  •  Give  me  the  right  to  love  and 
protect  you.  Permit  me  to  adopt  you  as  my  daughter. 
I  will  promise  to  obtain  your  mother's  consent.  What 
say  you,  Marcia  ?  "Will  you  be  my  child  ?" 

"  Are  you  in  earnest,  Mr.  Woodville  ?  Would  you, 
indeed,  take  the  poor  child  of  sorrow  to  your  heart, 
and  bless  her  with  a  father's  love — that  love  so  long  a 
stranger  to  my  path — so  earnestly  longed  for  by  my 
lonely  heart  ?" 

"  I  will,  indeed,  my  dear  child,  and  I  promise  myself 
an  endless  source  of  happiness  in  my  newly  acquired 
daughter.  From  this  moment  consider  me  your  fa 
ther — will  you  not  ? — and  you  shall  see  how  kind  and 
indulgent  I  will  be,  at  all  times,  to  my  sweet  child." 

I  rose  from  my  seat,  and  was  clasped  to  the  noble 
heart  of  the  man  whom  I  could  call  by  the  endearing 
name  of  father,  and  I  felt  that  the  wanderer's  way  had 
at  last  reached  the  banks  of  a  cool,  refreshing  river, 
whose  lucid  bosom  mirrored  forth  a  tranquil  happiness, 
before  undreamed  of,  for  my  future  lot. 

I  know  not  how  it  was,  but  from  this  period  my 
health  seemed  visibly  to  improve.  Flora,  laughingly, 


LIFE  OF  A  WANDERER.  139 

assured  me  my  cheeks  were  as  rosy  as  her  own.  I 
think  that  was  an  exaggeration.  I  was  able  to  take 
more  exercise,  and  was  not  so  sensibly  affected  by 
fatigue. 

My  mother  wrote,  in  answer  to  Mr.  "Woodville,  her 
thanks  to  him  for  all  his  kindness  to  me,  and  assured 
him  of  her  gratitude.  And  then  came  a  long  letter 
from  Mrs.  Woodville,  telling  me  how  happy  she  was  to 
hear  that  Mr.  Woodville  had  acted  such  a  part  to  me, 
and  assuring  me  of  her  unchangeable  love  and  affection. 
She  begged  me  to  recruit  my  health,  and  return  to 
them  in  the  fall,  telling  me  that  from  her  I  should  re 
ceive  the  warm  welcome  of  a  mother,  and  that  every 
member  of  the  family  joined  her  in  sincere  wishes  for 
my  entire  recovery  and  speedy  return  to  their  midst. 

The  season  at  Saratoga  was  very  gay,  and  many 
persons  sought  the  acquaintance  of  the  adopted 
daughter  of  the  rich  Georgian,  who,  I  suppose,  would 
have  shrunk  from  the  contamination  of  associating 
with  a  mere  governess.  But  there  were  others,  again, 
who  nightly  frequented  our  parlors,  and  who  were 
among  the  choicest  spirits  of  the  day.  They  met  to 
gether  and  contributed  greatly  to  my  amusement  by 
the  highly  intellectual  and  instructive  tone  of  their 
conversation.  I  was  particularly  delighted  in  the  so 
ciety  of  one  lady,  Mrs.  Allen,  who  hovered  around  me, 
and  seemed  to  have  formed  an  almost  sisterly  attach 
ment  for  me.  She  was  one  of  those  persons  who  at 
first  sight  appear  quite  homely,  but  who  upon  acquaint- 


140  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

ance  so  grow  upon  you,  and  gain  your  affections  by  the 
inexpressible  sweetness  of  their  manners  and  conver 
sation,  that  you  end  by  thinking  them  beautiful,  and  by 
prefering  them  to  all  others. 

I  had  always  imagined  Mrs.  Allen  to  be  singularly 
blessed  in  all  the  relations  of  life,  and  believed  her  to 
be  perfectly  happy.  One  day,  when  I  was  indulging 
in  a  few  childish  tears  at  the  sickness  that  still  clung 
to  me,  Mrs.  Allen  entered. 

"What,  Marcia,  in  tears?"  said  she,  kindly  taking 
my  hand. 

My  heart  was  too  full  just  then  to  reply. 
"You  must  not  give  up  to  these  feelings,  my  dear 
little  girl,"  she  said.     "  You  must  try  to  be  happy. 
You  can,  if  you  will." 

"You  can  very  easily  say  that,"  I  answered;  "you 
that  have  never  known  what  trouble  or  sorrow  are,  in 
all  your  life. 

"Do  you  really  think  so?"  she  asked,  in  a  tone 
whose  saddened  cadence  touched  me.  She  put  her 
hand  in  her  pocket,  and  drew  forth  a  tiny  book.  She 
handed  it  to  me  that  I  might  read  the  title.  It  was 
called  "  A  Crook  in  the  Lot."  While  I  was  looking  over 
it,  she  said,  in  a  slightly  faltering  voice,  "  Know,  my 
dear  child,  that  every  heart  has  its  own  bitterness. 
Sorrow  is  our  portion  here,  and  we  should  not  repine 
that  it  is  so,  but  look  around  us,  when  we  grow  dis 
contented,  at  the  pictures  of  wo  and  misery  presented 
to  us  on  every  hand.  If  we  will  but  contrast  our  situa- 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER.  141 

tions  with  those  of  others  less  highly  favored,  we 
shall  learn  contentment,  and  find  that  we  have  cause 
for  gratitude  rather  than  repining.  Above  all,  we 
have  never  any  right  to  make  others  unhappy  by  our 
discontent  and  complainings.  We  have  a  sacred  duty 
to  perform  to  our  fellow-creatures.  How  can  we  dis 
charge  it,  if  every  feeling  of  justice  to  others  is  swal 
lowed  up  in  the  selfishness  of  our  own  sorrows.  Alle 
viate  the  woes  of  others,  and  your  own  will  be  deprived 
of  half  their  bitterness.  Trust  me,  it  is  in  entire  ab 
negation  of  self  that  the  soul  is  prepared  for  another 
and  a  better  world.  Self  must  be  mortified,  humbled 
and  debased,  and  the  heart  must  dilate  to  receive  the 
tale  of  wo,  and  the  hand  be  quick  to  relieve  the  suffer 
ing  stranger,  before  we  may  be  pronounced  candidates 
for  the  blessings  of  immortality." 

"  And  do  you  think,  Mrs.  Allen,  that  good  works 
will  take  us  to  Heaven  ?" 

"  Far  from  it,  and  yet,  I  conceive  it  necessary  that 
faith  and  repentance  shall  be  accompanied  by  good 
works.  There  are  doubtless  instances  where  sinners, 
after  a  life  of  crime,  have  been  pardoned  and  received 
at  the  hour  of  death,  but,  trust  me,  it  is  a  sad  moment 
to  look  to,  for  repentance.  Too  many  who  have  trust 
ed  to  this  last,  forlorn  hope,  have  awakened  in 
another  world  to  mourn  their  irrevocable  doom,  and 
the  only  words  their  dark  despair  could  give  utter 
ance  to  were,  too  late,  too  late.  And,  again,  we  owe 
it  to  God  that  we  devote  to  him  our  youth,  our  days 
13 


142  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

of  brightness  and  joy,  as  well  as  the  night  time  of  sor 
row  and  care.  He  never  forsakes  us  in  adversity — 
should  we  forsake  him  in  our  hour  of  prosperity  ?  In 
the  common  friendships  of  life,  how  is  this  condemned? 
How  every  body  despises  the  fair-weather  friends  who 
leave  us  when  sorrow  overtakes  us ;  and  yet  how  often 
do  we  thus  neglect  God,  who  loves  us  with  a  Father's 
love,  who  guards  us  from  evil  and  who  watches  over 
us  through  the  long  hours  of  the  day  and  night ;  par 
dons  and  forgives  us  our  many  short  comings,  and 
loves  and  pities  to  the  last.  Yes,  even  when  he  con 
demns  the  soul  to  the  punishment  it  so  richly  de 
serves,  His  love  still  extends  to  the  cowering  being 
before  Him,  and  with  all  due  reverence  do  I  say,  He 
cannot  pronounce  the  words  of  doom,  without  pity  for 
the  poor,  lost,  out-cast  before  him.  Oh,  yes,  I  do 
firmly  believe,  dispute  it  who  may,  that  the  Mighty 
God,  Creator  of  all  worlds,  Author  of  Life,  the  Om 
niscient,  Omnipotent,  and  Omnipresent  director  of 
all  human  events,  loves  and  pities  the  poor  weak 
worm  He  has  made;  who,  in  battling  with  the 
storms  of  life,  has  not  had  sufficient  power  to  guide 
his  frail  bark  clear  of  the  shoals  and  quick  sands 
that  have  surrounded  and  embarrassed  him.  Does 
not  such  a  God  deserve  the  worship  of  our  hearts  ? 
Should  we  not  forget  the  trivial  sorrows  of  our  lot, 
and  serve  Him  with  all  the  love,  the  devotion  and 
obedience,  which  are  so  richly  His  due  ?  Do  not  fear 
God.  Love  Him,  and  serve  Him  because  you  love 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER.  143 

Him,  and  not  from  fear  of  .being  doomed  to  an  eter 
nity  of  punishment.  It  is  a  mistaken  notion  to  work 
upon  the  fears  of  people,  to  induce  them  to  become 
religious.  Such  conversions  are  seldom  lasting.  If 
we  are  convinced  how  much  God  has  loved  us,  surely 
it  will  not  be  difficult  to  love  Him  in  return." 

"I  should  think  not,  indeed,  and  we  are  most  un 
grateful  and  sinful  if  we  do  not.  Indeed,  dear  Mrs. 
Allen,  I  will  try  to  benefit  by  your  conversation  to 
day.  It  has  turned  my  eyes  inward  upon  myself.  I 
sec  that  I  have  been  very  selfish,  and  I  have  no  doubt 
it  will  be  a  hard-fought  battle  to  overcome  all  the 
weakness  that  incumbers  my  spirit ;  but,  I  will  try  to 
win  the  victory,  and  if  God  will  but  bless  the  effort,  I 
am  confident  of  success." 

"And,  believe  me,  my  dear  child,  God  will  bless 
the  effort.  He  will  raise  you  up,  and  give  you 
strength  and  courage.  Trust  Him  for  His  mercy  and 
grace.  He  has  called  you,  Marcia,  now,  in  the  spring 
time  of  life,  in  an  especial  manner.  Doubtless  the 
short-sighted  wisdom  of  your  friends  has  thought  pru 
dent  to  conceal  from  you,  my  dear  girl,  that  which  is 
plain  to  every  eye ;  but  in  all  the  tenderness  of  a  sis 
ter's  love,  I  would  warn  you  of  your  fate.  Marcia, 
the  fiat  has  gone  forth.  No  earthly  hand  can  save 
you.  I  read  in  the  sweet,  childlike  outlines  of  the 
face  before  me,  the  seal  which  death  alone  impresses. 
Alas,  Marcia,  you  must  die." 

"  Yes,  poor  Marcia  shall  die,  but  souls  that  we  love 
Have  an  endless  existence  and  progress  above." 


144  WAY-MARKS    IN    THE 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

"  In  lonely  str<  ngth  I  stand, 
E'en  though  Niagara  thunders  at  my  f.  el, 
And  storms  of  spray  upon  my  bosom  l-eat, 
I  can  their  force  withstand." 

My  dear  father,  for  so  I  shall  now  call  Mr.  Wood- 
ville,  finding  that  I  daily  grew  worse,  resolved  to  take 
me  to  Niagara,  believing,  in  the  fondness  of  his  heart, 
that  all  I  needed  was  change.  He  seemed  to  banish 
from  his  mind  the  thought  that  the  effects  of  the 
poison  were  slowly  wearing  out  my  existence,  and 
sapping  the  foundation  of  life. 

Arrived  at  Niagara,  we  took  rooms  at  the  Clifton 
House,  on  the  Canajda  side,  which  place  we  reached 
by  crossing  the  river  on  the  suspension  bridge,  a  short 
distance  below  the  Falls.  Never  shall  I  forget  my 
emotion,  when,  for  the  first  time,  I  gazed  on  the  stu 
pendous  phenomena.  I  was  lost,  in  speechless  won 
der,  at  the  mighty  mass  of  waters  that  rolls,  in  one 
endless  torrent,  over  the  ledge  of  rocks.  One  can 
scarcely  conceive  it  possible,  that  this  great  body  of 
water  has  been  constantly  supplied  for  ages.  It 
would  seem  as  though  even  the  ocean  would  be  drain 
ed  to  meet  its  demands.  And  then,  again,  the  mighty 
roar  of  the  cataract,  beside  which  all  other  sounds  are 
faint,  the  same  hoarse,  thundering  voice  that  waked 


LIFE   OF  A  WANDERER.  145 

the  echoes  of  the  Indian  forest,  ere  yet  a  Christopher 
Columbus  had  discovered  a  new  world.  The  same 
mighty  tones  as  when  unheard  by  all  but  God,  in  the 
early  ages  of  the  world,  proclaimed  to  earth  and 
sky  the  wonderous  power  of  its  maker,  God.  My  head 
reeled  as  I  looked  down  into  the  abyss  at  my  feet, 
and  I  felt  that  singular  temptation  to  jump  off,  which 
has  so  often  assailed  older  and  wiser  heads.  Flora 
clung  to  me  for  support,  as  if  she  feared  being  carried 
over,  against  her  will. 

Here  let  me  say  a  few  words  relative  to  the  feeling 
to  which  Marcia  alludes.  I  believe  it  is  most  proper 
ly  termed  a  morbid  impulse,  or  perhaps  it  might  be 
called,  with  equal  propriety,  a  monomania.  I  know 
there  are  many  who  laugh  at  the  existence  of  such 
things,  but  I  can  testify  to  actual  personal  experience 
in  the  matter. 

At  one  time  I  remember  being  at  Cape  Island,  and 
paying  a  visit,  with  a  large  party  of  young  people,  to 
the  Cape  May  Light-house.  We  all  ascended,  laugh 
ing  gayly  and  merrily,  to  the  top.  It  seemed  indeed 
an  interminable  distance,  but  at  length  we  reached  it, 
and  were  amply  repaid  for  our  trouble  by  the  beauty 
of  the  prospect  around  us.  To  the  left  of  us  lay  Cape 
Island,  with  its  mass  of  hotels  and  beautifully  pic 
turesque  cottages ;  before  us  lay  the  ocean,  bright 
with  the  reflection  of  the  setting  sun,  and  at  the  foot 
of  the  Light-house  the  surf  dashed  in  upon  the  finest 
beach  in  the  world.  Directly  across  the  bay  could 


146  WAY-MARKS    IN   THE 

be  seen  the  Cape  Henlopen  Light-house,  and,  in  the 
offing,  -were  several  ships  of  giant  size,  unfurling  their 
canvas,  and  standing  out  to  sea.  A  number  of  small 
craft  were  gliding  up  the  bay,  and  the  scene,  including 
the  bright  blue  sky  above  us,  was  one  certainly  diver 
sified  enough  to  form  a  glorious  picture. 

It  was  now  the  hour  of  fashionable  promenade,  and 
the  beach  was  crowded  with  the  gay  and  lovely  belles 
of  New  York,  Philadelphia  and  Baltimore,  and  they 
certainly  presented  a  more  beautiful  appearance  than 
they  ever  do  in  Broadway,  Chesnut  or  Baltimore 
streets.  Beside  them  the  wild  ocean  was  dashing  its 
spray  over  their  thinly  slippered  feet.  They  were 
attired  in  light  flowing,  summer  drapery,  and  wore 
on  their  heads  those  coquetish  little  caps  made  of 
zephyr,  some  scarlet,  some  blue,  some  pink,  some  ca 
nary  color,  and  altogether  the  scene  was  a  most  witch 
ing  one  to  the  eye,  and  beautiful  from  its  imagery, 
if  from  nothing  else. 

I  stood  long  gazing  at  the  picture,  and  suddenly 
conceived  the  idea  that  I  should  like  to  see  how  it 
looked  straight  down  at  the  base  of  the  Light-house. 
I  approached  and  looked  down,  but  an  intense  desire 
possessed  me  to  jump.  I  combated  it  with  all  the 
power  I  was  capable  of,  but  finding  I  could  not  con 
trol!  the  impulse,  I  screamed  to  the  rest  of  the  party 
to  save  me,  and  made  a  spring.  In  a  moment  I 
should  have  been  hurled  to  the  bottom,  but  a  strong 
hand  seized  me.  It  was  the  keeper  of  the  Light- 


LIFE   OF   A  WANDERER.  147 

house,  who  had  been  watching  me,  and  who  assured 
me  it  was  no  unusual  thing  for  visitors  to  be  affected 
in  that  way,  particularly  ladies. 

"  How  do  you  account  for  that  ?"  asked  a  pert 
young  lady. 

I  quickly  answered  her,  "Because  our  heads  are 
so  much  softer  than  men's." 

Upon  another  occasion,  I  remember  I  had  been 
very  ill,  and  one  of  the  medicines  that  had  been  used 
in  effecting  my  recovery  was  laudanum.  The  bottle 
stood  on  a  little  table  at  my  bed  side.  I  had  an 
irresistible  desire  to  raise  it  to  my  lips,  and  drink  all 
the  contents.  This  was  not  a  wish  to  commit  suicide. 
I  doubted  that  it  would  have  that  effect,  and  wished 
to  prove  to  my  mind  whether  it  would  kill  me  or  not. 

At  length,  one  night,  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  an  evil 
spirit  had  taken  possession  of  me.  Eleven,  twelve,  one, 
two  o'clock  struck,  and  I  could  not  sleep.  I  sat  up 
in  the  bed,  took  the  bottle,  deliberately  uncorked  it 
and  raised  it  to  my  lips.  I  know  not  how  to  describe 
the  conflict  that  now  took  place  within  me.  It  was 
certainly  a  battle  between  two  opposing  principles, 
perhaps  Will  and  Passion,  perhaps  Reason  and  Mad 
ness.  I  made  one  last  desperate  effort,  and,  rising 
from  the  bed,  went  to  the  window  and  dashed  the  bottle 
into  the  street.  I  felt  that  I  had  no  power  to  resist 
the  temptation  if  I  kept  it  before  me,  and  I  thus  placed 
it  out  of  my  power  to  do  wrong.  But,  whither  am  I 
straying  ?  I  leave  you  to  explain  to  your  own  satis- 


148  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

faction  the  singular  feelings  I  have  experienced,  and 
return  to  the  artless  presence  of  Marcia  Walton,  the 
lone  Wanderer  of  our  story. 

We  crossed  the  Niagara  river  in  the  little  steamer 
"Maid  of  the  Mist,"  ascended  the  Biddle  staircase, 
and  the  tower  of  the  same  name  ;  visited  Goat  island, 
and  then  returned  to  the  Canada  side,  and  passed 
two  hundred  and  seventy  feet  behind  the  great  falling 
sheet  of  water,  treading  on  slippery  rocks,  and  con 
stantly  annoyed  by  the  vast  number  of  slimy  water 
snakes,  that  ran  over  our  feet  and  often  obstructed 
our  path. 

Here  we  stood,  with  the  spray  dashing  over  us,  the 
roar  of  waters  in  our  ears,  and,  if  we  attempted  to 
look  up,  completely  blinded  by  the  fall  of  the  mighty 
cataract. 

As  we  came  forth,  drenched  with  water,  we  present 
ed,  in  our  garb  of  coarse  oil  cloth,  quite  a  fanciful 
appearance.  But,  there  have  been  already  so  many 
descriptions  of  this  far-famed  phenomenen,  that  I  shall 
not  pretend  to  add  my  feeble  attempts  to  the  list, 
more  especially  as  I  only  refer  to  it,  in  order  to  point 
out  the  way-marks  in  my  life,  and  show  you  the  lights 
and  shadows  which  have  surrounded  me. 

I  felt  that  I  could  never  weary  of  this  spot,  which 
had,  for  me,  a  charm  in  its  awful  sublimity,  that  coun 
try  scenery,  however  beautiful  in  its  character,  could 
not  possess.  There  was  a  music  in  the  mighty  roar 
of  the  cataract  that  accorded  well  with  the  impulses 


^  LIFE   OF   A   WANDEREK.  149 

of  my  nature.  There  was,  within  me,  an  echo  to  the 
wild  dashing  of  the  water,  caused  by  the  passions 
which  hound  me  to  earth,  and  which  warred  strongly 
for  the  posession  of  my  heart.  If  I  knelt  down  to  pray, 
it  seemed  impossible  to  banish  thoughts  of  the  world 
that  constantly  intruded  themselves  between  me  and 
my  devotions.  My  faith  was  weak,  and  removed  from 
the  kindly  teachings,  and  the  sharp  pruning-knife  ar 
guments  of  Mrs.  Allen,  I  was  in  danger  of  falling 
lower  than  ever,  for  my  dear  father  made  an  idol  of 
me,  and  would  not  believe  that  I  had  a  fault.  Indeed 
he  loved  me  so  tenderly,  that  he  would  have  suffered 
any  thing  rather  than  give  me  pain.  But  I  had  not 
yet  been  chastened  enough,  and  God,  who  loved  me 
better  than  any  earthly  friends,  was  pleased  to  bring  me 
lower  yet. 

I  loved  to  sit  at  my  window  for  hours,  and  as  I 
gazed  forth  upon  the  cloudless  night,  and  watched  the 
bright  and  ever  brilliant  stars,  to  listen  to  the  hoarse 
voice  of  the  mighty  waters.  Hour  after  hour  often 
passed  in  this  way,  till  Susan  would  beg  me  to  retire, 
and  tell  me  I  would  get  my  death,  if  I  did  not  take 
more  care  of  myself. 

Susan  was  a  very  good  girl,  but  then,  like  other 
mortals,  she  had  her  weaknesses,  and  it  so  happened 
that  there  sprang  up  between  her  and  the  head  waiter 
of  the  hotel,  quite  an  ardent  affection.  One  evening 
there  was  to  be  a  grand  display  of  fireworks,  and 
Susan,  very  modestly,  asked  my  consent  to  go  out 


150  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

with  John,  to  the  frolic.  Nothing  afforded  me  so 
much  pleasure  as  making  others  happy,  and  I  told  her 
to  go,  and  enjoy  herself  as  much  as  possible. 

I  went  to  the  snowy  couch  in  the  corner,  and  saw 
that  Flora  was  sleeping,  sweetly.  I  took  my  seat  at 
the  window,  and  was  soon  lost  in  reverie.  Were  I  to 
write  all  the  brilliant  phantasmagoria  that  passed 
through  my  mind,  at  these  seasons  of  quiet  converse 
with  the  stars,  I  should  be  looked  upon,  at  the  least, 
as  a  lunatic.  But  I  will  positively  assert  that  I  was 
at  these  times  in  possession  of  a  second  sort  of  exis 
tence  and  life,  entirely  different  in  its  feelings  and 
ideas  from  my  every  day  reality.  I  had  power  to 
concentrate  the  faculties  of  my  soul,  and  assume  a  sort 
of  inward  life,  to  which  the  outward  body  was  insen 
sible.  You  will  perceive  my  meaning  to  be,  that  I 
thus  lost,  to  a  certain  extent,  the  consciousness  of  what 
was  passing  around  me. 

I  read  in  the  stars,  strange  histories.  I  heard  in 
the  roaring  waters,  unearthly  music.  Sometimes  I 
fancied  I,  heard  the  wild  shriekings  of  despair,  the 
wail  of  wo  and  sorrow,  as  from  damned  spirits,  who 
thus  sent  forth  the  voice  of  their  anguish,  and  rent 
the  troubled  air. 

But,  again,  the  wild  discord  ceased,  and  the  songs 
of  angels  floated  around  me,  filling  my  soul  with  thrill 
ing  emotions  of  happiness.  My  heart  expanded  with 
pleasure,  and  I  seemed  to  feel  the  presence  of  beings 
from  another  world.  Laugh  as  you  may,  ye  skeptics, 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER.  151 

I  felt  this  presence,  doubtless  of  the  kind  guardian 
angels,  -whom  God  permitted  to  watch  over  me.  Does 
not  the  text,  taken  from  God's  own  book,  prove  that 
angels  were  once  permitted  to  visit  earth  and  keep 
watch  over  those  he  loved?  "  He  shall  give  His  angels 
charge  concerning  thee."  It  is  a  beautiful,  a  hallowed 
belief,  and  I  would  not,  if  I  could,  destroy  my  faith  in  it. 

Regardless  of  the  flight  of  time,  and  still  gazing  at 
those  worlds  of  light,  which  I  seemed  to  see  for  the 
first  time,  in  all  their  beauty,  Susan  entered  and 
warned  me  that  it  was  midnight.  She  begged  me  to 
retire ;  expressing,  as  her  firm  conviction,  that  I  would 
die  of  cold,  and  hustled  me  off  to  bed  without  further 
ceremony.  Of  course  I  was  perfectly  passive  in  her 
hands,  and  did  not  even  think  of  resisting  her  authority. 

The  next  morning,  very  much  to  my  own  surprise, 
and  none  at  all  to  that  of  poor  Susan,  I  was  very  ill, 
with  violent  inflammation  on  the  lungs.  For  several 
days,  however,  my  dear  father  did  not  seem  to  feel 
any  alarm,  but  at  last  marking  my  difficult  respira 
tion,  heightened  fever,  and  entire  loss  of  appetite,  he 
called  in  an  eminent  physician  from  New  York,  who 
was  boarding  in  the  house.  After  bleeding  me  freely, 
and  ordering  me  some  nauseating  medicine,  he  left 
me.  The  same  evening  he  came  again,  and  ordered 
me  blistered.  Still  I  grew  worse.  The  next  morn 
ing  I  was  leeched,  and  then  the  violence  of  the  disease 
abated,  and  I  was  pronounced  out  of  danger.  But  I 
had  suffered  intensely,  and  complete  prostration  follow- 


152  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

ed,  and  for  long  weeks  I  lay  hovering,  as  it  were, 
between  life  and  death.  It  is  a  singular  fact,  that  frail 
and  delicate  persons  frequently  outlive  diseases  which 
would  soon  have  carried  off  the  hearty  and  robust. 
Notwithstanding  my  delicate  health,  I  at  last  recover 
ed,  and  as  the  summer  was  past,  and  Niagara  at  the 
best,  a  cold  place,  my  father  determined  to  remove 
me  to  Cincinnati,  where  I  might  have  the  benefit  of 
warmer  air,  and  sunnier  skies. 

And  now  behold  us  fixed  in  that  magnificent  hotel, 
-lite  Burnet  House,  surrounded  with  comfort  and 
luxury,  elegant  large  apartments  at  our  service,  and 
introduced  into  the  society  of  the  loveliest  women  I 
have  ever  met.  I  never  loved  and  revered  my  sex, 
so  entirely  and  devotedly,  as  I  did  after  becoming  ac 
quainted  with  these  bright  and  shining  examples  of 
it.  There  was  one  in  particular,  who,  by  the  sweet 
charm  of  her  manner,  the  holiness  and  depth  of  senti 
ment  which  characterized  her  every  word,  and  the 
kindly  feelings  she  entertained  for  every  human  crea 
ture,  made  her  seem  to  me  like  an  angel  who  had 
assumed  human  form.  Dear  Mrs.  B,****}  never,  while 
memory  lasts,  never,  while  this  sad  heart  pulsates  with 
life,  shall  thy  image  become  dim,  or  lose  the  high 
place  where  I  have  enshrined  it. 

It  was  no  sooner  known  in  the  house  that  an  inva 
lid  was  there,  than  one  and  all  the  ladies  called  upon 
me,  and  surrounded  me  with  their  attentions.  Ah, 
how  grateful  to  the  heart  of  the  stranger  is  the  sym- 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER.  153 

pathy  of  woman.  They  came  to  me  with  kindly 
words  and  gentle  voices,  and  seemed,  around  my  sick 
couch,  like  guardian  angels  sent  to  minister  to  my 
sufferings.  I  would  rather  lose  all  honor  the  world 
can  give  than  forfeit  the  esteem,  the  love  and  the 
favor  of  my  own  sex.  Nothing  can  fill  the  void  made 
by  her  frown.  Often,  in  the  dark  hours  of  my  fate, 
when  bowed  down  by  the  weight  of  the  sorrows  that 
encompassed  me,  women  have  cheered  me  with  their 
smiles  and  ready  sympathy;  they  have  shielded  me 
with  their  love,  and  by  their  powerful  influence  I 
have  seen  all  obstacles  melt  away  from  my  path.  No 
man,  however  chivalrous  and  devoted  he  may  be  to 
woman,  can  rival  me  in  my  admiration  and  high  appre 
ciation  of  those  lovely  beings  who  are  indeed  the 
sweet  flowers  strewn  along  the  pathway  of  the  soul- 
sick  Wanderer. 

I  passed  some  time  at  Cincinnati,  and  at  the  close 
of  several  weeks,  my  health  had  visibly  improved,  al 
though  I  had  long  ceased  to  hope  for  a  permanent 
cure.  The  solemn  words  of  Mrs.  Allen  could  not  be 
forgotten,  and  all  the  bright  visions  fancy  sometimes 
presented,  were  sure  to  be  banished  in  my  sober  mo 
ments.  Mr.  Woodville  and  Flora  never  left  me  alone, 
and  it  seemed,  indeed,  impossible  to  weary  their 
watchful  love.  I  often  expressed  a  .wish  to  re 
turn  to  my  mother,  but  the  physician  who  attended 
me,  warned  my  father  against  taking  me  to  New 
York,  and  when  I  reverted  to  the  subject  my  father 
14 


154  WAY-MARKS   IN  THE 

seemed  so  pained  by  it,  that  I  resolved  never  to  speak 
of  it  again. 

We  often  drove  out  and  enjoyed  the  beautiful 
scenery  that  environs  Cincinnati.  It  is  absolutely  em 
bosomed  in  hills  to  the  north,  east  and  west,  while  on 
the  south  the  Ohio,  "  la  belle  riviere,"  as  the  French 
call  it,  rolls  at  its  base,  dividing  it  from  Kentucky, 
and  the  beautiful  Covington  hills.  To  drive  to  the 
top  of  these  hills  one  gains  a  view  of  a  truly  interest 
ing  and  beautiful  prospect.  This  place,  which  a  few 
years  ago  was  a  mere  village,  built  on  a  hill  side,  is 
now  a  great  city,  extending  itself,  like  a  mighty  giant, 
in  every  direction.  The  citizens  are  great  patrons  of 
the  fine  arts,  and  they  have  several  fine  galleries  of 
paintings,  from  which  may  be  selected  many  produc 
tions  of  real  genius. 

But,  the  most  beautiful  work  of  art  I  met  with, 
was  a  pair  of  adoring  Cherubims,  which  were  in  the 
Bishop's  Palace,  but  which  were  intended  for  the  su 
perb  building  now  in  process  of  erection,  called  the 
Cathedral.  Nothing  I  have  ever  met  exceeded  the 
beauty  and  truthfulness  of  these  fine  specimens  of 
statuary.  They  were  cut  in  Italy  from  the  purest  mar 
ble,  and  their  divine  and  life-like  expression  made  me 
stand  in  silent  awe,  and  gaze  at  the  handiwork  of 
man. 

Ah,  thought  I,  what  a  soul,  what  a  divine  concep 
tion,  what  a  mighty  power  must  that  being  possess, 
who  can  impart. to  the  ice-cold  marble  all  the  reality 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDEREB.  155 

of  life  but  the  breath — which  can  thus  portray,  in 
stony  lineaments,  the  emotions  that  agitate  the  soul. 

The  figures  are  kneeling,  ^and  with  uplifted  eyes 
they  are  gazing  upon  the  glory  and  majesty  of  God. 
Their  beautiful  hands  are  clasped  upon  their  breasts, 
and  the  drapery  falls  around  them  so  naturally,  that 
you  fear  a  breath  of  air  may  displace  its  folds.  To  gain 
a  correct  idea  of  all  their  beauty,  one  must  take  a  side 
view  of  the  exquisitely  modeled  head,  the  lofty  brow, 
the  fine  Grecian  nose,  the  small,  beautiful  mouth,  -well 
rounded  chin,  and  full,  swelling  throat,  seeming  to 
long  to  pour  forth,  in  a  burst  of  rapture  and  song, 
the  devotion  and  adoration  of  angels.  I  staid  over 
an  hour  gazing  at  these  beautiful  productions,  and 
had  not  my  father  hurried  me,  I  could  have  remained 
all  day.  Indeed,  I  never  yet  saw  a  well  executed 
collection  of  statuary  that  I  could  weary  of.  I  have 
gone,  again  and  again,  and  always  left  with  the  inten 
tion  of  returning  at  some  fitting  opportunity.  The 
polished  and  courteous  Bishop  conducted  us  into  his 
library,  where  the  walls  are  ornamented  with  many 
fine  paintings  and  engravings.  Over  the  mantle 
hangs  a  small  figure  of  Christ,  cut  in  ivory.  The 
workmanship  is  exquisite,  and  was,  I  believe,  executed 
in  Rome. 

Let  us  not  linger  longer  amid  these  scenes,  but  has 
ten  away,  with  giant  strides,  to  that  great  city  of  the 
far  west,  St.  Louis,  the  garden  spot  in  my  memory  of 
the  past,  a  city  destined  in  a  few  years,  to  be  second 


156  WAY-MAKES   IN   THE 

only  to  New  York,  the  great  connecting  link  between 
the  two  oceans,  and  doing  now  an  amount  of  busi 
ness  almost  incredible  to  those  who  live  at  a  distance. 

St.  Louis  \  what  charm,  what  magic  makes  my  soul 
thrill  with  unutterable  emotions,  as  I  write  the  dear 
word  that  awakens  in  my  heart  a  thousand  pleasant 
memories.  Linked  with  gratitude  for  the  past,  and 
bright  hope  for  the  future,  I  set  thy  name  within  my 
heart,  and  when  I  forget  to  love  and  pray  for  thee, 
when  I  forget  to  ask  God's  blessings  on  thy  noble  sons 
and  lovely  daughters,  may  God  punish  me  for  my 
ingratitude  by  withholding  His  blessing  from  me. 

Dear  St.  Louis,  what  "Wanderer's  path  was  ever 
lonely  in  thy  midst?  What  widow  or  orphan  ever 
left  thee  unrelieved  by  thy  noble  bounty,  and  kindly 
wishes?  God  knows  that  every  inch  of  ground  on 
which  thou  art  built  is  as  dear  to  my  fond  heart,  as 
my  own  dear,  native  New  York. 

The  eastern  people  have  little  idea  of  the  civiliza 
tion,  refinement  and  commerce  of  the  west,  and  I  must 
confess,  that  when  I  arrived  at  St.  Louis  and  found  a 
great  city,  with  its  ninety  thousand  inhabitants,  with 
its  stately  rows  of  stores  and  warehouses,  its  numerous 
churches  and  hotels,  and  its  long,  thickly  built-up 
dwelling  streets,  I  was  filled  with  astonishment.  Edu 
cation  is  encouraged  liberally.  Churches  are  hand 
somely  supported,  and  every  charitable  enterprise  is 
entered  into  with  the  kindliest  sympathy  by  the 
inhabitants.  The  daily  papers  are  large,  ably  con- 


LIFE   OF   A  WANDERER.  157 

ducted,  and  teem  with  interest,  and  they  are  all  well 
supported  by  an  enlightened  public.  The  society  is 
excellent,  and  there  is  an  absence  of  that  hauteur 
which  is  the  great  bane  of  some  of  our  older  cities. 
There  is  a  courtesy  and  also  a  gentleness  of  manner 
about  the  people,  that  go  right  to  the  heart ;  and  I  do 
not  believe  any  one  ever  spoke  ill  of  the  city  who  told 
the  truth. 

We  remained  in  St.  Louis  some  weeks,  which  I 
regard  as  the  happiest  of  my  life ;  but,  for  the  pre 
sent,  I  must  vail  the  history  of  this  time,  and  proceed 
to  New  Orleans.  As  the  weather  was  now  getting 
cold,  my  father  was  anxious  to  keep  me  in  a  warm 
climate. 

It  was  December  when  we  arrived  at  New  Orleans, 
but  the  warm,  balmy  air,  the  fragrant  flowers,  and 
the  bright  summer  dresses  of  the  ladies,  made  me 
fancy  I  had  slept  the  winter  away,  and  awoke  in  the 
beautiful  spring  time  of  the  year.  New  Orleans  is  the 
Paris  of  America.  It  is  difficult  to  conceive  a  more 
gorgeous  picture,  than  a  drawing-room  presents,  filled 
with  the  lovely  belles  of  Orleans.  They  have  the  most 
exquisite  taste  in  dressing,  and  the  costliness  and  ele 
gance  of  their  toilets  are  quite  equal  to  New  York  mag 
nificence.  Their  beauty,  too,  is  of  .that  dazzling  kind 
that  bewilders  the  beholder.  To  visit  the  soirees 
given  every  week  at  the  St.  Charles  and  Veranda 
Hotels,  one  might  form  some  conception  of  the  bril 
liant  assemblages  of  fashion  in  Paris.  The  first  time 

14* 


158  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

I  went  to  one  of  these  re-unions,  I  felt  convinced  that 
there  was  nothing  in  America  like  them.  It  seemed, 
indeed,  like  a  fairy  scene,  and  I  imagined  every  mo 
ment  I  should  awake  and  find  it  all  a  dream. 

It  was  a  great  pleasure  to  my  father  to  take  me  to 
these  gay  parties,  and  here  I  became  acquainted  with 
numhers  of  the  wealthiest  men  and  loveliest  women  of 
Orleans.  I  was  treated  with  great  politeness  and 
courtesy,  and  found  every  where  a  warmth  of  feeling, 
which  seems  natural  to  the  South  and  West.  Another 
place  of  fashionable  resort  is  the  French  Opera, 
and  we  very  often  went  there,  for  I  was  passionately 
fond  of  music,  and  hoped  to  lose,  in  its  holy  influence 
over  my  heart,  remembrance  of  my  sorrows. 

At  such  times  my  father  would  sit  and  watch  me, 
seemingly  delighted  to  read  in  my  face  the  expres 
sion  of  enjoyment  which  I  know  was  there.  Little 
Flora  always  went  with  me  every  where,  and  I  have 
no  doubt  was  improved  greatly  in  her  music,  with  such 
excellent  examples  to  imitate. 

But  that  which  was  the  greatest  amusement  and 
pleasure  of  my  life,  strange  as  it  may  seem  to  you, 
was  my  visits  to  the  cities  of  the  dead.  I  took  a 
melancholy  pleasure  in  walking  through  the  grave 
yards  about  the  city,  and  spent  many  hours  in  them, 
I  trust  not  unprofitably.  I  loved  to  wander  along  the 
silent  paths  and  read  the  epitaphs,  and  more  than  all 
to  mark  the  enduring  love  of  the  living  for  the  dead, 
evidences  of  which  might  be  seen  at  the  humblest 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER.  159 

grave.  The  French  are  particularly  celebrated  for 
this  holiness  and  depth  of  affection,  which  survives 
the  tomb. 

The  people  of  New  Orleans  are  forced,  on  account 
of  the  marshy  nature  of  the  soil,  to  bury  their  dead 
above  the  ground.  Vaults  are  built  sometimes  of 
brick,  sometimes  of  stone,  and  oft  times  of  the  purest 
marble,  and  here  the  bodies  are  laid  in  rows,  one 
above  another.  Standing  in  front  of  these  graves  are 
rich  and  elegant  bouquets,  formed  of  the  most  superb 
and  costly  flowers,  and  placed  here  by  hands  that 
never  weary  of  culling  them  in  remembrance  of  the 
'lost  one.  All  the  long  year  through,  you  will  find 
these  garlands  and  bouquets.  What  can  be  more 
sweet  and  touching  than  this  simple  utterance  of  un 
dying  love  ?  Death  is  thus  disrobed  of  half  its  ter 
rors,  for  the  bitterest  drops  in  the  cup  are  the  thoughts 
of  being  forgotten. 

I  have  met  somewhere  with  an  idea  which  I  will 
quote.  I  do  not  remember  the  precise  words,  but  the 
sentiment  has  a  direct  bearing  on  the  subject  in  ques 
tion. 

"kYou  cannot  justly  say  that  that  person  is  dead  who 
still  lives  in  the  hearts  of  his  survivors.  Every  day 
he  is  before  them.  His  smiles,  his  words,  his  looks 
of  love  are  garnered  up  in  the  treasure-house  of 
memory,  and  at  night,  sweet  visions  of  the  happy  past 
float  round  the  pillows  of  the  bereaved,  and  they 
awake,  feeling  that  they  have  seen  the  loved  form — 


160  WAY-MARKS   IN  THE 

now  an  angel  in  the  sky,  which  has  been  kindly  per 
mitted  to  hover  near  them  and  watch  them  as  they 
slept. 

Is  this  death  ?  Is  this  that  endless  sleep  ;  that  an 
nihilation  which  the  infidel  fancies  preferable  to  any 
other  state  of  existence  ?  Ah,  no,  believe  it  not. 
What  we  call  death  is  in  reality  but  the  beginning  of 
life.  Where  would  be  the  use  of  this  life,  with  its 
toils  and  struggles,  its  long  probation,  its  thorny  and 
difficult  track,  if  that  track  did  not  lead  to  a  beautiful 
country,  a  land  flowing  with  milk  and  honey,  a  para 
dise,  in  short,  where  our  thirst  for  happiness  shall  be 
fully  satisfied,  and  where  God,  Himself,  shall  wipe  all* 
tears  from  our  eyes  ?" 

But  there  are  grave-yards  here,  and  long  rows  of 
graves  where  no  sweet  flowers  bear  evidence  of  love ; 
where  no  loved  form  kneels,  and  where  no  foot,  save 
that  of  the  careless,  ever  strays.  These  are  J;he 
Strangers'  graves,  and  you  may  read,  in  the  simple 
inscriptions,  a  whole  world  of  meaning.  Here,  a 
youth  of  nineteen,  native  of  Boston,  far  from  his 
mother,  his  home  and  his  friends.  Yellow  fever,  '46. 
There,  a  young  man  of  twenty-three,  Portland,  Maine. 
Yellow  fever,  '46,  and  so  on  you  may  count  them  by 
the  dozen,  till  the  heart  turns  away,  sick  at  the  thought 
of  what  their  last,  sad  hours,  might  reveal.  The  ter 
rible  pestilence,  stalking  through  the  streets  of  the 
doomed  city  at  noon-day,  the  wail  of  anguish,  sor 
row  and  death  ;  the  last,  sad  prayer  for  mercy,  never 


LIFE   OP  A   WANDERER.  161 

sought  till  now ;  the  rumbling  of  the  wheels  of  those 
vehicles  that  bear  away  to  the  charnel  house  the  loath 
some  corpse ;  all  this  came  up  before  me,  and  I  turned 
shuddering  away.  And,  would  you  believe  it,  while 
this  horrible  fever  is  ravaging  the  city,  a  bright,  glo 
rious  sun  shines  high  in  heaven,  and  beautifully  clear 
skies  hang  over  it,  with  an  air  that  seems  to  be  the 
very  breath  of  purity  ? 

But,  let  us  turn  from  these  melancholy  scenes,  to 
where  life,  and  light,  and  beauty  have  undisputed 
sway.  I  was  sitting  one  evening  at  the  French  opera, 
witnessing  the  performance  of  Robert  le  Diable. 
Deeply  interested  in  the  opera,  I  had  not  glanced 
around  the  house.  Our  box  door  was  suddenly  open 
ed,  and  I  looked  up,  at  an  exclamation  of  surprise 
from  my  father.  In  truth  I  was  as  much  startled 
as  he,  for  Octave  Woodville  stood  before  me. 


162  WAT-MARKS   IN   THE 


CHAPTER  IX. 

,    "  Oh,  is  it  sin  to  love  the  very  air 

That  onee  had  rested,  Marcia,  on  thy  brow? 
To  gaze  in  fondness  on  thy  vacant  chair, 

And  on  thy  books  and  flowers  deserted  now  ? 
Or  turn  with  fond  remembrance  to  thy  face, 
Whose  sweetest  looks  the  heart  alone  can  trace  ? 

Is  it  a  sin  to  live  again  each  hour 
Passed  in  thy  presence  ?  to  recall  thy  tones, 

Thy  playful  words,  thy  serious  thoughts,  whose  power 
Thrills  every  nerve  my  quickened  spirit  owns  ?" 

We  shall  be  forced  to  go  back  a  little  in  our  story, 
in  order  to  explain  what  may  have  appeared  unintelli 
gible. 

Mary  Jones  was  the  only  daughter  of  a  wealthy 
southern  planter,  whose  residence  was  about  ten  miles 
from  the  Woodvilles.  She  was  twenty  years  old, 
rather  pretty,  extremely  coquetish,  and  believed  hus 
band  to  be  only  another  name  for  tyrant.  Octave 
Woodville  had  long  known  her.  He  fancied  he  loved 
her,  or  perhaps  he  did  so,  truly.  He  proposed  to  her 
father,  and  was  referred  to  his  daughter. 

Now  nothing  was  more  certain,  than  that  Mary 
really  liked  Octave,  but  she  felt  a  delicacy  about  let 
ting  him  know,  all  at  once,  how  completely  she  had 
surrendered  her  heart  to  him.  Mary  was  a  great 
tease,  and  she  thought  if  she  was  very  tractable  now, 


LIFE   OF  A   WANDERER.  163 

her  greatest  delight  in  life  would  be  taken  from  her. 
In  short,  she  resolved  to  torment  Octave  as  much  as 
possible,  and  she  began  by  imposing  upon  him  a  long 
probation,  telling  him  she  would  try  and  see  if  she 
could  not  like  .him  a  little.  Really  she  had  never 
thought  of  it  before.  He  had  quite  taken  her  by  sur 
prise,  but  she  would  think  about  it.  Octave  bore  this 
very  well,  and  proved  to  the  little  tyrant  what  she 
knew  very  well  all  the  time,  that  he  loved  her  ten 
derly.  But  Mary  was  not  content  to  let  well  enough 
alone,  and  she  thought  she  would  try  how  far  she 
might  go  in  provoking  Octave's  jealousy.  Several 
days  in  succession  he  met  her  out  riding  with  a  young 
gentleman  in  the  neighborhood,  and  her  manner  to 
him  was  so  constrained  and  formal,  and  to  his  rival 
so  friendly  and  kind,  that,  in  a  fit  of  rage,  he  told  her 
he  renounced  all  pretensions  to  her  hand,  and  left  her 
free  to  marry  whom  she  would.  Mary  pouted  her 
saucy  little  lips,  and  told  him  he  was  a  very  small  loss 
to  her ;  laughed  and  chatted  gayly,  till  he  took  his  de 
parture,  and  then  she  ran  up  to  her  room,  and  gave 
vent  to  more  bitter  tears  than  had  ever  wet  her  rosy 
cheeks  before.  She  tried  to  convince  herself  that  she 
did  not  care,  but  conscience  would  not  acquit  her  of 
having  trifled  with  the  feelings  of  an  honorable  lover, 
and  poor  Mary  was  unhappy,  for  the  first  time  in  her 
life. 

Octave,   smarting    under   the  disappointment,  but 
too  proud  to  speak  of  it,  had  hidden  it  in  his  own 


164  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

bosom,  and  concealed  it  from  his  mother,  and  it  was 
shortly  after  that,  that  Marcia  Walton  came  to  live 
with  them.  Octave  had  spent  most  of  his  time  in  his 
country  home,  and  had  never  had  opportunity  to  see 
much  of  the  fair  beauties  of  the  North.  Marcia  was 
exquisitely  beautiful.  Her  fine,  pure  complexion, 
large,  tender  eyes,  so  holy  and  meek  in  their  expres 
sion,  and  yet  capable  of  lighting  up  with  the  hidden 
fires  of  intelligence ;  her  small,  rosy  mouth,  fine  class 
ical  head,  and  even  her  pale  cheek,  had  all  their  charm 
for  Octave,  not  less  lasting  and  dear  on  account  of 
their  novelty.  But  there  was  that  about  Marcia, 
which,  even  had  she  been  homely,  would  have  made 
her  lovely.  She  was  pure-hearted,  amiable  and  sin 
cere.  If  she  spoke  you  might  know  you  heard  the 
truth,  and  her  eyes  seemed  to  mirror  forth  the  feel 
ings  of  a  soul  of  spotless  purity.  She  was  kind  to 
every  living  being,  and  would  not  even  tread  upon  the 
humblest  insect  in  her  path. 

Mary  was  a  bright,  rosy-cheeked  picture  of  health 
and  enjoyment,  and,  indeed,  no  two  persons  could  have 
been  more  different.  When  together,  which  they  often 
happened  to  be,  one  would  be  struck  by  the  perfect 
beauty,  and  yet  entire  difference  of  their  features. 
Doubtless,  Octave,  having  become  wearied  of  the  gay, 
wild-bird-like  Mary,  turned  with  satisfaction  to  the 
quiet  Marcia.  Certain  it  is,  he  admired  her  talents 
and  accomplishments,  but  still  more  than  all  else,  he 
was  enchanted  with  the  sweet  gentleness  of  her  man- 


OF  A   WANDERER.  165 

ners.  She  was  always  calm  and  self-possessed.  Her 
voice  was  soft  and  low,  and  its  tones  thrilled  to  his  in 
most  heart.  In  short,  Marcia  was  a  perfect  specimen 
of  a  refined  and  intelligent  lady. 

I  would  ask  you,  now,  if  it  was  strange  that  Octave 
withdrew  his  heart  from  Mary  Jones,  and  conceived  a 
violent  passion  for  Marcia?  and  it  was  violent,  just  in 
proportion  as  Marcia  was  cold  and  indifferent.  Here 
the  struggle  in  the  young  man's  heart  was  severe,  for 
he  dreaded  lest,  by  a  careless  wordj  he  should  alarm 
the  delicacy  of  the  fair  girl,  and  place  her  under  re 
straint  towards  him.  Sometimes  he  fancied  that 
Marcia  was  already  plighted  to  some  favored  lover  in 
New  York,  and  at  this  thought  the  bitterness  of  his 
feelings  was  insupportable,  and  it  became  evident  to 
all  his  family  that  something  was  weighing  on  his 
heart.  But,  then  again,  he  would  converse  with  her, 
and  gaze  with  delight  at  the  pure  spirit  that  shone 
from  her  eyes,  and  seemed  to  confess  they  had  no  se 
cret  to  hide,  and  he  would  chide  himself  for  his  own 
weakness,  and  indulge  sweet  dreams  of  the  future, 
with  Marcia  for  his  bride. 

Such  was  the  state  of  things  when  Octave  used  that 
ungallant  expression,  "confound  Mary  Jones."  To 
tell  the  truth,  he  regretted  that  he  had  ever  fancied 
he  loved  any  one  but  the  fair  beauty  he  so  wildly  wor 
shipped.  He  loved  Marcia  as  man  never  loves  but 
once.  He  rested  his  every  hope  of  happiness  upon 
her  acceptance  of  his  hand  and  heart,  and  the  bright 
15 


166  WAY-MARKS   IN  THE 

future  he  had  power  to  offer  her  ;  and  we  have  seen 
how  she  refused  him,  proving  in  the  very  act  the  high- 
souled  integrity  that  actuated  her  conduct.  There  are 
too  many  girls  who,  dazzled  by  the  offer  of  wealth 
and  position,  would  have  accepted  it  for  interests'  sake, 
but  our  Marcia  was  not  of  that  mercenary  stamp. 
She  was  one  of  those  beings  we  sometimes  meet  in  our 
wanderings  by  the  way-side,  who  seem  lent  to  us  for  a 
little  while,  to  teach  us  what  Heaven  is  like,  but  who 
are  speedily  called  away  to  the  bosom  of  the  Father. 

The  anguish  felt  by  the  whole  family,  when  Mary, 
the  slave,  had  committed  her  diabolical  crime,  has 
been  already  depicted,  and  as  it  would  be  useless  to 
repeat  it  here,  we  pass  over  it  to  the  time  when 
Marcia  departed  for  the  North ;  thus  depriving  poor 
Octave  of  the  only  pleasure  that  had  remained  to  him, 
the  charm  of  her  society.  It  was  in  vain  that  Mrs. 
Woodville  sought  to  relieve  his  sorrows  by  all  the 
'watchful  tenderness  of  a  mother's  love.  It  was  in 
vain  that  John,  his  wild,  young  nephew,  talked  and  re 
lated  anecdotes,  and  played  off  his  numerous  pranks. 
Octave  seemed  sunk  in  hopeless  despondency,  and 
Harry  Percy  was  the  only  person  who  possessed  any 
power  over  him.  Every  moment  Harry  could  spare 
from  the  duties  of  his  school  was  spent  with  Octave, 
and  in  a  short  time  they  became  as  affectionate  as 
brothers. 

That  Marcia  had  been  very  ill  was  a  fact  well 
known  to  Harry,  but  the  cause  of  that  illness  had  re- 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER.  167 

mained  a  profound  secret  to  him.  It  often  seemed  to 
him,  however,  that  Octave  had  something  on  his  mind 
he  wanted  to  confide  to  him,  but  was  not  yet  deter-, 
mined  how  to  act  in  the  matter.  The  cause  of  this 
mystery  was  an  enigma  to  Harry  Percy,  and  he  would 
not  for  worlds  have  sought  his  confidence,  or  tried  to 
fathom  his  secret,  and  yet  that  secret  was  one  which 
interested  him  deeply. 

At  length,  Octave  grew  seriously  ill.  He  was  out 
riding  one  afternoon,  and  a  heavy  storm  came  up.  He 
returned  home  through  the  drenching  rain,  and  every 
article  of  clothing  he  had  on  was  saturated.  The  next 
day  he  was  confined  to  his  bed,  unable  to  move  from 
side  to  side,  on  account  of  the  stiffness  of  his  limbs, 
and  a  long,  tedious  attack  of  inflammatory  rheumatism 
supervened.  His  mother  watched  over  and  nursed 
him,  and  Gregory,  who  dearly  loved  his  uncle,  spent 
long  hours  at  his  bed  side,  and  never  wearied  of  play 
ing  the  part  of  an  affectionate  nurse.  Harry  Percy 
brought  his  books,  and  read  aloud  or  talked,  and 
strove,  by  every  means  in  his  power,  to  make  the  time 
pass  pleasantly  for  the  invalid. 

Every  Saturday,  April  drove  down  to  town,  and 
returned  with  letters  from  Marcia,  Mr.  Woodville  and 
Flora.  Mrs.  "Woodville,  pitying  his  anxiety,  always 
allowed  Octave  to  read  them  first,  and  he  would 
peruse,  with  the  most  intense  anxiety,  every  line  that 
Marcia  had  penned,  and  every  word  in  his  uncle's  let 
ters  that  related  to  her.  His  heart  bounded  with  de- 


168  WAY-MARKS  IN  THE 

light  at  the  praise  Mr.  Woodville  always  bestowed 
upon  her,  and,  if  possible,  he  loved  her  more  and 
*more,  now  that  he  might  call  her  his  cousin.  He  was 
rejoiced  that  his  uncle  had  adopted  her,  and  he  felt 
that  it  would  not  be  likely  she  would  leave  her  adopted 
father  to  go  to  New  York,  at  present.  He  thought 
that  she  would  return  to  Georgia,  live  with  them 
again,  recover  her  health,  and  in  the  end,  perhaps, 
all  his  bright  dreams  might  be  realized. 

Then  came  another  letter,  dated  at  Niagara,  and 
Marcia  was  ill,  very  ill ;  and  he  was  sick — a  cripple. 
He  could  not  fly  to  her  now,  and  watch  her,  as  he  had 
done  before.  Oh  !  the  long  sleepless  nights,  the  in 
terminable  days,  there  were  then  in  a  week.  A  week 
that  used  to  pass  so  swiftly.  How  maddening  was 
the  suspense  till  April  came  with  the  letters.  Marcia 
was  better.  She  was  not  able  to  write  yet,  Mr.  Wood 
ville  said,  but  she  soon  would  be,  he  hoped.  Two  long 
weary  months  elapsed,  and  then  came  a  letter  from 
Marcia,  dated  at  Cincinnati,  written  in  her  usual  affec 
tionate  style,  but  breathing  a  tone  so  hopeless,  so  de 
sponding,  that  the  heart  of  the  strong  man  was  shaken, 
and  the  tears,  long  strangers  to  his  eyes,  moistened  his 
sun-burnt  cheek. 

"  Here,  Harry,  read  this  letter,  and  do  not  scorn  the 
weakness  that  prompts  these  tears.  If  you  loved  her 
as  I  do,  you,  too,  would  weep ;  for,  alas !  it  is  I  who  have 
caused  her  fate.  It  is  my  fault — all  my  fault.  But 
read  the  letter.  I  will  tell  you  about  that  afterwards." 


LIFE   OF   A  WANDERER.  169 

And  Harry  Percy  did  read  the  letter,  but  neither 
by  word  or  look  did  he  express  the  deep  interest  he 
felt  in  the  writer.  Octave  said : 

"  You  may  think  me  childish,  Harry,  but  you  do 
not  know  all.  Listen  to  me.  These  tears  are  shed 
for  the  sad  fate  of  the  fairest  girl  that  ever  blessed 
the  sight  of  man.  And  Marcia  is  not  only  lovely  be 
cause  she  is  fair,  but  she  is  as  good  as  she  is  beautiful. 
And  yet,  so  young,  so  lovely,  so  well  calculated  to 
adorn  the  most  brilliant  position  in  life,  she  is 
doomed  to  an  untimely  grave ;  and  why,  do  you 
suppose?" 

"I  know  not.  She  came  out  here,  I  believe,  in 
delicate  health,  and  after  she  reached  here  was  taken 
ill  with  some  violent  fever." 

"Taken  ill  with  a  fever!  Alas,  she  was;  and  a 
red  hot,  intense,  burning  fever  it  was  to  be  sure.  Har 
ry  Percy,  you  will  hate  me,  I1  know,  when  I  tell  yea. 
the  horrid  truth.  I  poisoned  her." 

"You  POISONED  HER!"  said  Harry,  starting  from 
his  chair  with  a  look  of  horror,  and  a  face  as  pallid 
as  death. 

"  Yes,  I  did.  Not  to  be  sure  with  my  own  hands, 
or  my  own  will,  but  had  it  not  been  for  me  the  crime 
would  never  have  been  committed.  Lean  your  head 
down,  Harry,  I  will  whisper  the  frightful  tale  to  you, 
lest  it  wake  the  echoes  around  my  bed,  and  fill  me 

again  with  terror." 

****** 

15* 


170  WAY-MARKS   IN  THE 

"And  thus  this  lovely,  innocent  girl  is  paying  the 
penalty  of  another's  crime?" 

"  She  is;  she  is;  and  can  you  call  me  by  any  other 
name  than  murderer?" 

"  Nay,  Octave,  do  not  thus  accuse  yourself.  It  is 
terrible,  but  it  is  past.  You  cannot  undo  it.  Try  to 
be  patient.  Soon,  perhaps,  you  will  see  her  again. 
No  doubt  she  wishes  to  be  with  you." 

"  Longs  to  see  me  ?  pines  for  my  presence  ?  Ah ! 
no,  no,  never.  You  are  quite  mistaken,  Harry ;  Marcia 
pitied  me,  but  loved  me,  never.  In  fact,  she  refused 
me  decidedly.  She  told  me  she  never  could  love  me. 
She  gave  me  not  even  an  atom  of  hope." 

"  Then  I  have  been  deceived,  for  I  was  led  to  be 
lieve  you  were  betrothed  to  each  other.  I  supposed 
some  slight  difference  had  arisen  between  you,  and 
stood  in  the  way  of  your  present  happiness." 

"  Alas,  how  much  you  have  been  mistaken  a  burst 
ing  heart  can  testify.  Such  happiness  never  was  in 
tended  for  me.  It  was  asking  too  much  of  fate.  Ah  ! 
what  a  delight  it  would  have  been  to  me  to  nurse  her, 
to  minister  to  her  wants,  to  surround  her  with  all  the 
delicate  attentions  of  devoted  love.  How  dearly  I 
should  have  prized  her  smiles;  how  tenderly  wiped 
away  her  tears.  Oh !  I  would  have  guarded  her  as 
the  miser  does  his  gold;  tenderly  as  a  mother  does 
her  first  born,  I  would  have  folded  her  to  my  bosom, 
next  to  the  heart  that  beats  only  with  its  undying  love 
for  her.  But,  why  talk  of  this  impossible  happiness  ? 


LIFE   OF  A  WANDERER.  171 

Marcia,  weak  and  feeble,  doomed  to  die ;  so  young,  so 
beautiful,  and  yet  food  for  the  loathsome  worm,  and 
/ — J,  the  cause !  Oh !  God  be  merciful  to  me.  I  am 
suffering  the  penalty  for  my  own  crime.  Alas,  the 
punishment  seems  greater  than  I  can  bear,  but  I  see 
in  it  Divine  retribution.  The  measure  I  have  meted  out 
to  others,  has  returned  to  crush  me  to  the  very  earth." 

Do  not,  dear  Octave,  give  up  to  these  wild,  self-up- 
braidings.  They  can  do  you  no  good.  You  have,  in 
deed,  deep  cause  for  grief,  I  confess,  and  yet  if  you  will 
compare  your  lot  with  others,  you  will  find  many  bless 
ings  granted  to  you  which  have  been  withheld  from 
others.  Look  rather  on  the  bright  side  of  the  pic 
ture.  Try  to  get  well  speedily.  Go  to  her,  and  per 
chance  your  presence  may  be  a  solace  to  her,  even 
though  you  may  not  be  as  dear  as  you  would  wish." 

"  I  am  afraid  to  go  to  her.  Must  she  not  hate  me, 
when  she  reflects  that  it  is  my  fault  for  which  she  is 
forced  to  suffer  such  bitter  expiation?" 

"Ah!  believe  me,  Miss  Walton  never  hated  any 
body  in  her  life.  From  her  early  childhood  she  was 
remarkable  for  the  sweetness  and  amiability  of  her 
disposition." 

"  How  should  you  know  anything  about  Miss  Wal 
ton,  when  she  was  a  child  ?  Surely,  you  met  here  as 
strangers?  What  am  I  to  think?" 

"  'Tis  very  true,  Miss  Walton  does  not  know  me, 
but  I  am  acquainted  with  friends  of  hers  in  New  York, 
who  never  weary  of  praising  her,  and  they  all  unite 


172  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

in  pronouncing  her  first  of  her  sex.  Do  not  fear  then, 
that  she  has  not  forgiven  you.  Doubtless  each  night, 
as  she  kneels  before  her  Maker,  she  implores  the  mercy 
and  blessing  of  Heaven  upon  your  head." 

"Do  you,  indeed,  think  so?  Oh!  how  happy  such 
a  belief  would  make  me.  I  have  never  ceased  accus 
ing  myself  from  the  time  of  the  dreadful  occurrence ; 
but  if  I  could  feel  she  had  forgiven  it,  I  should  be 
much  relieved." 

"  Try  to  be  patient,  and  recover  from  your  illness. 
Then  go  to  her,  and  hear  your  pardon  from  lips  that 
have  dropped  blessings  on  all  around  them.  I  feel 
quite  certain  she  will  accord  it,  with  all  the  nobleness 
that  marks  her  character,  and  makes  her  so  worthy  to 
be  loved." 

"I  will  do  so,  but  what  an  effort  of  patience  it  will 
be  to  wait  till  I  recover.  Oh  !  how  wearisome  it  is  to 
lay  here,  as  weak  and  helpless  as  a  child,  while  my 
soul  pants  to  be  free,  and  fly  to  her  presence,  which 
alone  is  happiness  to  me." 

"  There  is  but  one  way  to  overcome  impatience,  my 
dear  friend,  and  that  is  by  trusting  to  a  higher  power 
than  your  own  for  strength  to  bear  the  sorrows  of  life. 
The  burthen,  which  now  appears  insupportable,  would 
be  lifted  from  your  shoulders,  and  contentment  would 
once  more  fill  your  breast,  if  you  would  but  trust  in 
that  God  who  has  promised  to  sustain  you  in  the  dark 
hours  of  adversity.  School  your  heart  to  submission 
to  His  Will,  and  restrain  those  emotions  which  must 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER.  173 

necessarily  increase  your  anguish  "and  suffering,  both 
of  mind  and  body.  I  have  often  been  astonished 
to  mark  how  much  more  patience,  faith  and  endur 
ance,  women  display  in  moments  of  intense  anguish 
than  our  own  sex.  This  is,  I  think,  very  remarkable, 
when  we  take  into  consideration  our  superior  strength 
of  mind  and  body." 

"But,  then,  you  must  recollect  that  the  life  of  man 
is  active  and  exciting.  It  ill  suits  his  impetuous  tem 
perament  to  be  housed  up  in  indolence  and  inaction. 
With  woman  it  is  different.  She  passes  her  time  in 
quiet  and  retirement,  and  the  monotony  of  sickness  is 
rather  pleasant  to  her  than  otherwise,  because  she  is 
relieved  from  the  necessity  of  all  exertion." 

"Ah,  my  friend,  you  do  not  give  woman  credit  for 
the  noblest  of  her  qualities,  when  you  speak  of  her 
thus.  I  have  been  considered,  by  all  my  friends,  a 
woman-hater;  and  why,  do  you  suppose?  Simply, 
that  I  never  condescend  to  flatter  and  whisper  in  her 
ear  the  soft  nothings  that  feed  her  vanity,  but  which  I 
consider  beneath  the  dignity  of  a  man.  Yet,  I  admire 
the  sex.  I  have  studied  it  well,  and  there  is  not 
a  being  on  the  face  of  the  earth  who  has  a  higher 
regard  for  woman  than  I  have.  The  veriest  beggar 
that  crawls  the  street,  covered  with  rags,  is  entitled  to 
my  sympathy  and  kindly  wishes,  if  a  woman.  It  mat 
ters  not  how  low  she  is ;  I  have  no  right  to  scorn  her. 
She  is  the  creature  of  circumstance. 


174  WAY-MARKS   IN  THE 

And  again ;  the  poor,  lost  being,  who  is  cast  off  by 
her  own  sex,  who  is  the  sport  and  puppet  of  ours,  who 
has  fallen,  alas,  so  low  that  she  ceases  to  blush  for  her 
own  shame,  is  still  worthy  of  my  pity,  and  of  that  of 
every  man  who  has  not  lost  all  human  sympathy  and 
feeling.  God  forbid  that  I  should  add  to  her  cata 
logue  of  wo  and  misery,  one  atom  of  scorn.  But  pity, 
the  holiest  pity,  words  and  looks  of  encouragement, 
kind  advice — all  these  she  is  entitled  to,  and  I  should 
hate  myself  if  I  could  look  back  on  one  act  that  had 
brought  fresh  sorrow  and  pain  to  the  heart  of  one 
already  crushed  with  despair  and  shame." 

"  There  I  must  confess  we  must  differ.  I  cannot 
conceive  that  any  kindness  shown  to  such  beings 
could  be  appreciated.  It  would,  in  my  estimation,  be 
throwing  pearls  before  swine." 

"Whether  they  appreciate  your  kind  intentions  or 
not  is  another  affair ;  not  yours.  Perform  your  own 
duty.  Act  from  a  sense  of  justice  and  right,  and 
leave  the  rest  to  God,  and  believe  me  it  is  far  better 
to  err  on  the  side  of  mercy,  than  to  be  too  severe. 
And,  again,  I  would  ask,  who  made  you  a  judge  over 
your  fellow  man  ?  Are  you  perfect  and  without  sin, 
that  you  arraign  him  at  your  tribunal  ?  Ah,  believe 
me,  if  God  punished  us  with  the  severity  that  we 
award  to  our  fellows,  I  fear  we  should  never  reach 
Heaven.  It  is,  indeed,  well  that  our  judge  is  removed 
from  all  the  weaknesses  of  humanity," 


LIFE   OF   A  WANDER  EH.  175 

<f  Admiring  the  fair  sex,  as  you  do,  it  is  singular 
that  I  find  you  past  thirty,  and  a  bachelor.  Why  is 
this,  or  is  it  a  secret?" 

"No,  the  reason  is  very  obvious.  My  father  died 
soon  after  I  reached  the  age  of  manhood.  His  pro 
perty  was  considerable,  but  not  more  than  enough  to 
support  comfortably  my  mother  and  three  sisters.  I 
relinquished  all  claim  to  it,  and  resolved  to  carve  my 
own  way  through  the  world.  I  went  to  New  York 
city,  and  devoted  myself  to  the  study  of  the  law. 
After  close  assiduity,  for  a  term  of  years,  I  received 
a  diploma,  but  here  an  unforseen  difficulty  presented 
itself,  and  I  was  obliged  to  postpone,  for  a  period  of 
time,  the  practice  of  my  profession.  A  circumstance 
occurred  that  filled  me  with  anxiety,  and  I  resolved  to 
spend  a  year  at  the  South  to  suit  purposes  of  my  own, 
which  shall,  perhaps,  at  some  future  period,  be  ex 
plained  to  you.  I  have  never  married,  and  it  is  not 
likely  that  I  ever  shall  do  so,  for  I  would  not  link  the 
fate  of  the  woman  I  loved  with  my  uncertain  fortunes. 
I  could  not  endure  to  have  the  being  who  looked  up 
to  me  for  support  and  protection,  suffer  from  my  in 
ability  to  provide  for  her.  It  would  break  my  heart. 
I  should  have  no  energy,  no  spirit  to  meet  the  trials 
of  my  life,  which  are  surely  arduous  enough  as  they 
are.  Now,  alas,  my  path  is  all  too  dark  for  happiness. 
Then  it  would  be  far  worse." 

"You  deserve  a  better  fate,  Harry,  and  I  trust 
fortune  will  shine  upon  you  yet." 


176  WAY-MARKS   IN  THE 

"  Rather  say  Providence,  for  I  will  not  allow  th'at 
the  fickle  goddess  has  any  power  over  us,  save  that 
which  God  allows.  There  are  too  many  circumstan 
ces  occurring  every  day,  in  the  wise  economy  of 
nature,  to  convince  me  of  an  over-ruling  Providence, 
to  permit  me  for  one  moment  to  doubt  of  its  exis 
tence.  I  have  an  humble  trust  in  His  goodness.  /  If 
He  has  not  blessed  me,  as  others  around  me  are 
blessed,  doubtless  it  is  for  my  good,  and  I  bow  in  sub 
mission  to  a  will  holier  and  nobler  than  my  own. 
But  do  not  suppose  I  have  gained  this  triumph  over 
the  weakness  of  my  nature  in  a  day,  a  week,  or  a 
month.  Ah,  no,  I  have  suffered  long  and  deeply, 
and  I  know  I  should  never  have  conquered  had  I  de 
pended  upon  myself  for  aid.  God  himself  has  seen 
and  blessed  the  effort,  and  all  the  victory  is  to  be 
ascribed  to  Him.  If  I  can  talk  calmly  and  quietly  to 
you,  while  a  deep  and  incurable  sorrow  sits  at  my 
heart,  believe  me  it  is  by  the  blessing  of  God." 

Harry  Percy  paused,  and  covering  his  face  with 
his  hands,  remained  silent  for  a  long  time.  He 
seemed  to  be  overcome  by  the  violence  of  some  secret 
grief.  Octave  was  surprised  at  what  he  had  told  him, 
but  he  was  too  well  bred  to  press  him  for  an  explan 
ation.  He,  however,  profited  by  his  kind  and  brother 
ly  advice,  and  after  some  weeks,  he  was  able  to  walk 
about  the  house.  Gradually  his  strength  returned,  and 
a  letter  arriving  with  the  intelligence  that  our  little 
party  was  in  New  Orleans,  he  resolved  to  join  it  at  once. 


LIFE   OF  A   WANDERER.  177 

In  a  very  short  time,  his  arrangements  being  made, 
he  set  out,  promising  to  return  as  soon  as  possible, 
and  bring  Marcia  vrith  him.  It  is  thus  we  may  ac 
count  for  his  appearance  in  the  box  at  the  Opera,  at 
the  close  of  the  last  chapter.  Leaving  the  party  to 
mutual  congratulations  and  inquiries,  we  will,  if  you 
please,  visit  the  boudoir  of  a  couple  of  pretty  girls, 
after  the  opera  of  that  evening. 


CHAPTER  X. 

"  They  came  and  went  like  shadows, 

The  blessed  dreams  of  youth, 
And  they  left  behind  no  impress 

Or  record  of  their  truth. 
Then  the  future  was  all  sunshine, 

In  gorgeous  robes  arrayed ; 
But  ever  as  I  reached  it, 

Its  sunshine  turned  to  shade." 

"  What  a  foolish  girl  you  are.  It  is  easy  to  be  seen 
you  have  lived  in  the  country  all  your  life,"  said  a 
fair  young  lady,  at  the  advanced  age  of  seventeen, 
who  was  dressed  in  canary  colored  brocade. 

"Have  the  girls  in  cities  no  hearts?"  asked  her 
companion,  in  blue,  contemptuously. 

Well,  no ;  or  rather,  yes ;  they  have  hearts  but  they 
manage  them  and  keep  them  in  subjection.  Now 
really  this  little  affair  of  yours" — 

"Don't  talk  to  me  and  call  it  a  little  affair,"  said 
16 


178  WAY-MARKS  IN  THE 

the  young  fairy  in  blue,  stamping  her  little  foot  im 
patiently. 

"  Oh,  ho  !  oh,  ho  !  she  is  getting  in  a  passion,  aye. 
And  with  me,  too,  that  she  always  pretended  to  love. 
That  is  a  pretty  way  to  treat  an  old  tried  friend." 

"Forgive  me,  Kate,  pray  do.  I  was  vexed,  and 
you  know  I  had  reason  for  it." 

"I  don't  think  you  had  any  reason  at  all,  now, 
you  simple  little  dunce,  to  fret  and  feeze,  and  worry 
about  a  naughty  man,  that  wont  even  look  at  you,  and 
you  sitting  there  dressed  so  charmingly  in  blue." 

"Do  you  think,  Kate,  that  that  particular  color 
ought  to  have  attracted  his  attention  ?  For  my  part 
he  seemed  to  have  no  eyes  for  any  one  in  the  theatre 
but  that  pale  girl  with  his  uncle." 

"Who  is  she?" 

"  Why,  don't  you  remember  her  ?  That  was  Marcia 
Walton." 

"  Marcia  Walton  ?  Is  it  possible  ?  Why,  how  she 
has  altered.  I  never  should  have  known  her  in  the 
world.  Where  are  they  staying  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,  but  you  can  easily  find  out  by  ask 
ing  your  father." 

"  So  I  will,  the  first  thing  in  the  morning,  and  we 
must  call  on  her,  Mary,  at  once.  False  delicacy 
ought  not  to  stand  in  the  way  in  such  a  case.  She  is 
sick,  and  a  stranger  here,  and  she  is  therefore  entitled 
to  our  warmest  sympathies.  I  shall  ask  mother  to  go 
with  us." 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER.  179 

"I  don't  like — to — go.     I — I — might  meet  ." 

"  Nonsense,  you  might  meet  ?  Well,  what  if  you 
did  ?  Treat  him  with  such  contempt  that  he  will  soon 
see  how  you  hate  him." 

"But  I  don't  hate  him,  though." 

"More  dunce  for  your  pains  then.  At  all  events 
we  will  go.  So  now  let  us  retire,  that  we  may  be 
bright  and  fresh  in  the  morning.  I  do  love  dear,  old 
Mr.  Woodville  so.  Good  night." 

"And  I  do  love  dear,  young  Mr.  Woodville  so," 
sighed  Mary  Jones,  as  her  plump  rosy  cheek  rested 
on  her  pillow,  and  she  composed  herself  to  sleep,  per 
chance  to  dream  of  Octave. 

******** 

Mr.  Kennet,  the  father  of  the  pretty  Kate,  was  a 
wealthy  merchant  of  New  Orleans.  He  resided  in  an 
elegant  residence  on  the  Rue  Royale,  and  had  as 
sembled  around  his  wife  and  only  daughter,  an  atmos 
phere  of  luxury  and  elegance,  which  made  them  the 
admiration  of  many  of  their  acquaintances.  Every 
art  had  been  employed  to  make  his  house  spacious, 
gorgeous  and  grand.  Superb  paintings  hung  on  the 
walls.  Immense  book  cases  displayed  collections  of 
all  the  celebrated  poets  and  authors  of  every  age. 
Rich  carpets  of  velvet  tapestry  covered  the  floors. 
Curiously  carved  chairs  and  sofas  of  rose  wood, 
covered  with  satin  damask,  graced  the  apartments, 
and  all  the  costly  and  rich  little  articles  that  betray 
the  presence  of  woman  were  scattered  profusely  about. 


180  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

The  drawing  rooms  opened  on  a  conservatory  filled 
with  choice  flowers,  and  its  glass  walls  were  com 
pletely  overgrown  with  vines  of  the  heliotrope  and 
wax  flower.  The  air  was  laden  with  perfume,  and  as 
if  to  add  new  beauties  to  the  scene  of  enchantment, 
there  were  here  and  there  bird  cages  suspended  amidst 
the  branches  of  an  oleander  or  orange  tree,  and  through 
the  open  door  the  brilliantly  plumed  songsters  would 
fly,  to  pour  forth  their  thrilling  melody  from  the  thick 
branches  of  some  Indian  tree. 

Mr.  Kennet  had  also  a  son,  a  young  man  of  twenty- 
one,  and  this  made  up  all  his  family.  When  he  was  a 
young  man  he  had  made  the  acquaintance  of  Mary 
Jones's  father,  and  the  intimacy  between  the  families 
had  always  remained  unbroken.  They  had  been 
schoolmates  and  inseparable  friends  in  their  youth, 
and  they  had  never  allowed  the  cares  of  life  to  make 
them  forget  each  other.  The  winters,  Mary  spent 
with  her  father  in  New  Orleans.  T*he  summers, 
always  brought  Mr.  Rennet's  family  to  Georgia,  to 
the  plantation  of  Mr.  Jones. 

As  may  well  be  supposed,  Kate,  with  her  wild 
spirits,  dazzling  beauty,  and  great  fortune,  was  an 
object  of  interest  to  many  of  the  dashing  beaux  of 
Orleans,  but  she  remained  perfectly  indifferent  to 
them,  for  there  was  a  certain  mad-cap  in  Georgia, 
named  John  Woodville,  who  possessed,  in  her  childish 
mind,  some  attractions,  and  it  is  very  certain  she  was 
always  happier  there,  than  she  was  at  home.  This 


LIFE   OF  A   WANDEREE.  181 

Kate  very  innocently  attributed  to  the  charms  of  a 
country  life,  and  as  we  have  no  right  to  doubt  the 
young  lady's  word,  I  suppose  we  must  acknowledge 
she  knew  best. 

The  next  morning,  true  to  her  promise,  Kate,  ac 
companied  by  her  mother  and  friend,  started  out  on 
her  visit  to  Marcia,  Mr.  Kennet  having  informed  them 
that  they  were  staying  at  the  St.  Charles  Hotel.  They 
found  Marcia  seated  in  an  easy  chair,  with  a  velvet 
cushion  at  her  feet1,  and  Mr.  Woodville  beside  her, 
reading  to  her.  Flora  sat  near  her,  and  Marcia 
amused  herself  by  curling  the  child's  long  ringlets 
round  her  fingers.  She  was  looking  very  pale  and 
feeble,  but  she  received  her  visitors  with  that  easy 
grace  and  dignity  that  never  forsook  her.  Mrs.  Ken- 
net,  who  had  never  seen  her  before,  was  highly  pleased 
with  her,  and  gave  her  a  pressing  invitation  to  visit 
them.  Marcia  said : 

"I  shall  get  my  father  to  take  me,  some  day." 

Mrs.  Kennet  looked  surprised.  She  said,  "  I  was 
not  aware  that  your  father  was ." 

"I  will  set  you  right,"  said  Mr.  Woodville.  Marcia 
is  my  adopted  daughter,  and  it  is  I  she  honors  with 
the  name  of  father." 

"Really,  I  am  glad  of  that.  I  scarcely  know  which 
I  ought  to  congratulate  most,  but  I  think,  Mr.  Wood 
ville,  you  have  a  prize  in  such  a  daughter.  And  you, 
Flora,  how  do  you  like  your  cousin,  Marcia  ?" 

"I  can't  say  I  like  her  at  all,  but  I  love  her  dearly." 
16* 


182  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

"  I  fear,  my  little  cousin  Flora  is  a  partial  judge  of 
my  good  qualities,  Mrs.  Kennet.  Pray  do  not  appeal 
to  her,  if  you  should  wish  to  hear  unbiassed  opinions." 

"  I  should  be  quite  satisfied  to  rest  upon  her  judg 
ment,  said  Mrs.  Kennet." 

"How  long  do  you  stay  in  New  Orleans?"  asked 
Kate.  Mr.  "Woodville  said  : 

"Perhaps,  a  month  longer.  Then,  we  go  to  Mo 
bile,  and  from  there  home." 

"To  Miss  Walton's  home,  or  Georgia?"  asked  Mary 
Jones. 

"  Oh  !  to  dear,  dear  Georgia,"  said  Flora,  gaily. 

Mary  Jones  and  Kate  expressed  their  interest  and 
kindly  sympathy  for  the  invalid.  Marcia,  smiling 
sweetly,  thanked  them  for  their  kindness,  and  told 
them  they  must  come  every  day  to  see  her,  and  not 
wait  for  her  visit,  as  it  was  impossible  for  her  to  ob 
serve  ceremony  with  them.  They  gladly  promised  to 
comply,  and  the  hearts  of  the  lovely  girls  warmed  to 
the  gentle  being  whom  they  felt  was  slowly,  but  almost 
imperceptibly,  passing  away  from  earth.  There  was  a 
charm  in  the  society  of  the  fair  Marcia  that  drew  all 
hearts  towards  her,  and  there  was  a  sweetness  in  her 
manners  that  disarmed  envy,  and  it  might  truly  be 
said  of  her : 

"  None  see  thee  but  to  love  thee, 
None  know  thee  but  to  praise." 

Mary  Jones  looked  around  the  room.  She  could 
see  no  trace  of  Octave.  Neither  was  his  name  men- 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER.  183 

tioned  by  any  of  the  party.  "I  am  glad  he  is  not 
here,"  she  thought.  And  then  said,  in  her  heart,  "I 
wish  he  were." 

At  that  instant  he  entered  the  room.  He  spoke 
politely  to  all  three  of  the  ladies,  and,  advancing  to 
Marcia,  presented  her  with  a  fresh  boquet  of  flowers. 
She  took  them,  and  thanked  him  sweetly  for  his  kind 
remembrance  of  her,  but  there  was  nothing  in  her 
manner  that  could  give  Mary  the  least  cause  for  jeal 
ousy.  "  He  would  be  a  monster  if  he  was  not  kind 
to  her,  poor  thing,"  she  thought. 

"Well,  Miss  Kate,"  asked  Octave,  laughing;  "how 
comes  on  your  trade  of  heart-breaking  ?" 

"Not  very  flourishing,  I  assure  you.  I  believe 
there  are  only  six  persons  who  have  announced  to  me 
their  intention  to  die  on  my  account  this  winter.  Is 
it  not  six,  mother?"  she  asked,  counting  on  her  fingers 
at  the  same  time.  "  There  was  Joe  Winters,  one ; 
Colonel  Marks,  two ;  Doctor  Stansberry,  with  the  long 
nose,  three  ." 

"For  shame,  daughter,"  said  Mrs.  Kennet;  "I 
cannot  permit  you  to  ridicule  your  friends  in  this 
manner." 

"  Well,  but  you  know,  mother,  there  is  nothing  in 
the  heavens  above,  or  on  the  earth  beneath,  or  in  the 
waters  under  the  earth,  that  is  secure  from  his  ridi 
cule." 

"Two  wrongs  never  make  a  right,  Kate.  Never 
subject  any  one  you  recognize  as  an  acquaintance  and 


184  WAY-MARKS  IN  THE 

receive  as  a  guest,  to  ridicule.  You  cannot  expect  to 
be  respected  yourself,  if  you  make  little  of  your 
friends." 

"  Kate  is  very  young  yet,"  remonstrated  Marcia. 

"And  our  dear  little  Marcia  is  very  old.  I  believe 
she  has  arrived  at  the  advanced  age  of  eighteen  and 
some  months.  Are  you  not  ?"  asked  Mr.  Woodville. 

"Nearly  nineteen,"  said  Marcia. 

"We  all  bow  in  reverence  to  your  years,"  said  Kate, 
with  a  merry  laugh. 

"  Ah !  you  naughty  girl,  do  you  make  fun  of 
Marcia?"  asked  Octave,  shaking  his  finger. 

"I  should  much  prefer  making  fun  of  you,"  she 
said,  with  a  saucy  curl  of  the  lip. 

"  I  would  not  care  if  you  did,  if  it  afforded  one 
particle  of  pleasure  to  that  little,  wicked  heart  of 
yours." 

"  My  heart  is  neither  little  nor  wicked.  You  must 
not  judge  of  me  by  your  great,  big,  wicked  self." 

"  If  you  make  such  sweeping  accusations,  I  shall 
call  for  proof,  Miss  Kate.  What  did  I  ever  do  that 
was  wicked  ?" 

"  I  don't  think  it  would  puzzle  me  as  much  to  tell 
that,  as  it  would  to  tell  what  you  ever  did  that  was 
good." 

That's  not  so  bad,  Kate,  upon  my  word,"  said  Mr. 
Woodville,  laughing.  "  A  few  more  home-thrusts 
like  that,  and  your  opponent  will  throw  down  his 
weapons, ." 


LIFE    OF    A   WANDERER.  185 

"And  assume  a  virtue,  though  he  has  it  not,  of  hav 
ing  discretion  to  surrender,"  said  Octave. 

"  Really,  we  must  go,"  said  Mrs.  Kennet.  "  I  had 
no  idea  it  was  so  late.  Marcia,  do  not  forget  to  come 
and  see  us,  as  soon  as  your  strength  will  permit.  I 
shall  be  most  happy  to  receive  you,  and  show  you 
some  of  the  beauties  of  our  conservatory.  I  believe 
you  are  fond  of  flowers." 

"Oh!  passionately,  madam." 

"  Well,  you  will  find  at  our  house  flowers  of  every 
color  and  clime.  I  flatter  myself  New  Orleans  cannot 
boast  of  a  more  beautiful  collection  of  plants.  Good 
bye,  my  dear  child.  I  hope  to  see  you,  very  soon." 

"Kate  and  Mary  came  to  kiss  their  young  friend. 
Marcia  drew  Mary's  ear  close  down  to  her  face,  and 
whispered : 

"  Mary,  dear,  come  to  see  me,  very  soon,  alone — I 
have  something  to  tell  you.  Now,  don't  forget." 

Mary  raised  her  head  in  a  flutter  of  joy.  Her 
cheeks  were  suffused  with  a  bright  flush,  but  her  color 
faded  as  she  saw  the  look  of  surprise,  not  unmingled 
with  displeasure,  with  which  Octave  regarded  her. 
Her  poor,  little,  fluttering  heart  was  chilled.  Marcia 
saw  the  look,  and  could  not  altogether  repress  a  feel 
ing  of  anger  that  Octave  should  treat  with  this  chill 
ing  indifference  the  girl  he  had  wooed,  and  had  once 
determined  should  be  his  wife.  There  was  a  plan  in 
her  mind,  however,  by  which  she  sought  to  reconcile 
all  these  differences. 


186  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

That  evening,  Mr.  Woodville  dined  out,  and  Flora 
had  gone  to  a  little  girls'  party,  to  which  she  had  been 
invited.  Marcia  and  Octave  were  alone  together. 
Seating  himself  near  her,  he  said : 

"At  last,  I  have  the  opportunity  I  have  so  long 
and  eagerly  sought.  Will  you  listen  to  me,  fair  cousin, 
for  a  few  moments  ?" 

"With  pleasure." 

"I  have,  for  some  time  past,  had  a  confession  to 
make  to  you,  which,  although  you  already  know  all 
the  circumstances,  it  seems  but  proper  you  should  hear 
from  my  lips. 

"You  must  know  that  your  illness  and  consequent 
debility  have  been  caused  by  me.  My  mother  told 
you  all,  but  I  have  come  to  you  to  seek  your  forgiveness 
for  the  wrong  I  have  done  you.  Tell  me,  if  you  have 
no  feeling  of  anger  to  him  who  has  thus  turned  your 
day  into  darkness — who  has  strewn  your  path  with 
thorns,  and  who  has,  in  short,  been  the  bane  of  your 
life  ?" 

"I  have  long  since  forgiven  you,  Octave,  and  have 
never  ceased  to  pray  that  God  might  extract  from 
your  heart  the  bitterness  of  self-reproach.  Oh !  be 
lieve  me,  when  I  assure  you  that  I  do  not  cherish  in 
my  heart  one  atom  of  resentment  towards  you,  and  I 
have  often  regretted  that  I  was  forced  to  give  you  one 
moment's  pain. 

"  You  give  me  pain,  sweet  cousin  ?  Ah !  you  have 
been  the  joy,  the  hope,  the  beacon-star  of  life.  Do 


LIFE   OF   A  WANDERER.  187 

not  think  there  could  be  pain  associated  in  my  mind 
with  aught  so  fair  and  lovely." 

"  Listen  to  me,  Octave,  dear  Octave.  I  have  heard 
you.  Will  you  not  listen  to  me,  now,  calmly,  quietly, 
dispassionately,  while  I  tell  you  something  that  is  on 
my  mind?" 

She  laid  her  delicate  white  hand  on  his.  She  gazed 
at  him  with  those  gentle  eyes,  filled  with  a  look  of  soft 
entreaty.  She  had  called  him  Octave — dear  Octave. 
What  could  all  this  mean  ?  The  blood  coursed  rapidly 
through  his  veins.  Did  she  love  him,  now  ?  he  asked 
himself.  Were  her  feelings  changed  towards  him? 
Oh !  joy,  joy.  He  could  not  restrain  his  emotions. 
He  raised  the  tiny  hand  to  his  lips.  He  pressed  burn 
ing  kisses  upon  it,  and  again,  in  a  voice  broken  with 
emotion,  poured  forth  his  tale  *of  love. 

Marcia  listened  quietly.  For  a  moment  a  deep  flush 
passed  over  her  face,  leaving  it  again  paler  than  before. 
She  felt  that  she  had  been  misunderstood,  and  was 
about  to  explain  herself,  when  a  sigh  sounded  in  her 
ear.  She  looked  up,  surprised,  and  saw  Mary  Jones 
standing  before  her,  trembling  with  the  intensity  of 
her  emotions.  How  much  of  the  scene  she  had  wit 
nessed,  Marcia  could  not  tell,  but  it  was  evident  she 
had  seen  enough  to  rouse  her  jealousy.  She  cast  a 
look  of  mild  reproach  upon  Octave,  and  then  abruptly 
left  the  room. 

The  whole  had  passed  so  quickly  that  no  one  had 
spoken  a  word.  Poor  Marcia  realized  to  the  full  all 


188  WAY-MARKS   IN  THE 

the  unpleasantness  of  her  situation,  and  making  a 
strong  effort  to  control  her  feelings,  she  said : 

"Alas  !  Octave,  see  what  you  have  done." 

"What  have  I  done?  Mary  Jones  is  nothing  to 
me.  I  owe  her  nought  but  cold  politeness." 

"Nay,  but  you  owe  her  more  than  that;  and,  if  she 
is  not  now  offended  past  recall,  I  hope  to  persuade  you 
to  regard  her  as  I  do.  I  fear  she  will  not  forgive  this 
last,  however." 

"  That  would  be  a  matter  of  great  indifference  to 
me." 

"Nay,  Octave,  hear  me.  I  have  that  to  say  to  you 
which  regards  your  own  happiness  as  well  as  Mary's. 
Cast  aside  all  those  unkind  feelings,  and  listen  atten 
tively  to  me. 

"You  sought  the  love  of  a  young,  innocent  girl. 
She  gave  you  her  heart,  but  she  was  too  proud  to  con 
fess  all  at  once  that  it  was  so.  Some  of  her  playful 
tricks  piqued  your  vanity.  You  were  jealous,  and  in 
a  fit  of  haughty  disdain  you  left  her.  You  saw  me. 
Your  heart  was  idle.  You  needed  some  stimulant, 
some  excitement  to  keep  you  from  dwelling  upon 
the  past.  You  had  promised  to  wrap  yourself  in 
your  mantle  of  pride,  but  your  efforts  were  ineffec 
tual,  for  the  ghost  of  your  past  happiness  was  before 
you." 

"How  have  you  thus  acquired  the  power  to  read 
my  heart  ?" 

"  It  matters  not.     Do  not  interrupt  me.     It  suffices 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER.  189 

for  us  both  to  know  that  I  have  read  aright.  You  saw 
me,  and  loved  me,  not  with  the  same  love  you  had  felt 
for  Mary,  but  a  devotion  which  would  have  made  you 
sacrifice  your  life  to  my  whims.  Had  I  attempted  to 
make  you  jealous,  you  would  have  borne  it  patiently, 
and  never  have  sought  to  blame  me,  or  call  me  to  ac 
count  for  it.  It  would  have  been  sufficient  to  you  that 
I  did  it,  to  make  it  right  in  your  sight.  In  a  word, 
you  looked  upon  the  poor  governess  as  your  superior, 
and  you  venerated  her  as  you  should  have  revered  and 
woi^iped  your  God." 

"Tell  me  how  it  is  that  you  unravel  the  secret 
workings  of  my  heart,  and  seem  to  know  me  better 
than  I  do  myself?" 

"By  a  simple  effort  of  will,  I  have  made  myself 
acquainted  with  your  thoughts.  But,  let  me  go  on. 
This  impiety,  this  devotion  to  the  creature  that  was 
due  to  the  Creator,  met  its  punishment,  and  you  found 
coldness  where  you  had  hoped  to  meet  with  love. 
Hoped,  did  I  say  ?  Nay,  that  were  a  poor  word  to 
express  your  feelings.  You  had  fiercely  resolved  to 
find  love.  Every  power  of  your  soul  was  concentrated 
in  your  passion,  and  you  would  not  hear  the  reply  I 
gave  you.  You  impiously  believed  that  God  would 
not  have  permitted  such  an  idolatry  to  take  possession 
of  your  heart,  if  He  did  not  intend  to  crown  your  love 
with  success.  Poor  man,  to  believe  that  God  had 
anything  to  do  with  the  passion  of  your  heart.  Had 
I  married  you,  do  you  suppose  God  would  have  made 
17 


190  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

the  union  ?  I  have  often  thought  of  the  words  in  the 
marriage  ceremony:  'Whom  God  has  joined.'  Sure 
enough,  'whom  God  has  joined,  let  no  man  put  asun 
der.'  But  how  are  you  going  to  find  out  whom  God 
has  joined? 

"  Wealth,  station,  every  blessing  was  in  your  favor. 
You  cast  all  upon  the  die,  and  you  lost  all., 

"  Let  me  analyze,  if  possible,  the  feelings  that  influ 
enced  me  in  that  refusal.  There  had  been  no  coquetry 
on  my  part  to  lead  you  on,  and  then  reject  you.  I 
call  God  to  witness  that  I  would  have  scorned  the 
thought.  I  was  ignorant  of  your  motives  and  feelmgs, 
and  your  actions  oft-times  appeared  strange  to  me.  I 
had  heard  it  tacitly  admitted  that  you  were  to  be  mar 
ried  to  Mary  Jones.  I  never  thought  much  about  it, 
for  the  subject  was  not  one  of  interest  to  me,  but,  I 
believed  at  times,  from  observations  you  made  use  of, 
there  had  been  a  kind  of  lover's  quarrel  between  you. 
It  was  not  my  affair,  however,  and  I  soon  banished  the 
subject. 

"  When,  upon  that  memorable  morning,  Mary  con 
cealed  in  the  forest,  heard  your  declaration  of  love,  and 
I  was  first  awakened  to  a  sense  of  my  position,  I  must 
confess  to  you  that  my  emotions  were  of  a  most  pain 
ful  nature.  It  grieved  me  to  give  you  pain,  and  yet, 
I  was  well  convinced  that  love  had  never  yet  existed 
in  my  heart,  and  love  alone  could  induce  me  to  be 
come  a  wife.  But  I  do  not  wish  you  to  suppose  that, 
because  I  had  never  loved,  I  was  entirely  ignorant  of 


LIFE   OF  A  WANDERER.  191 

the  nature  of  the  passion.  The  many  books  I  had 
read,  had  sufficiently  developed  in  my  $iind  an  appre 
ciation  of  the  sentiment,  to  make  me  regard  you  with 
pity,  for,  said  I,  suppose  it  was  I  who  loved  as  he  does, 
and  loved  hopelessly,  how  desolate  and  sad  I  should 
feel.  Poor  Octave,  I  thought,  would  that  I  could  return 
your  affection.  But  this  was  impossible.  Pity,  in  this 
instance,  would  not  give  birth  to  love,  and  although 
I  manifested  towards  you  all  the  affection  of  a  sister, 
yet  you  lacked  the  faculty  to  rouse  the  dormant 
powers  of  love. 

"I  now  felt  that  my  position  would  be  unpleasant 
in  your  family,  and  I  sought  to  find  some  reason  to 
return  to  my  mother.  But  God,  who  sees  not  as  man 
sees,  and  who  moves  in  a  mysterious  way,  had  another 
fate  reserved  for  me.  I  was  stricken  down  on  that 
very  morning,  and  in  a  few  hours  I  was  looking  death 
in  the  face.  But  let  me  pass  over  these  details,  dear 
Octave.  They  cannot  fail  to  give  you  pain.  I  come 
to  your  second  declaration,  made  and  seconded  by  your 
mother.  Here  was  a  renewal  of  all  the  feelings  that 
had  before  caused  me  so  much  uneasiness.  Alas !  I  ex 
claimed,  I  am  then  doomed  to  make  the  misery  of  those 
who  love  me.  'Not  so,'  said  a  still  small  voice  within 
me.  'Be  patient,  be  firm  and  true,  and  you  shall 
become  a  blessing,  where  now  you  seem  the  reverse.' 
Octave,  the  hour  is  come.  The  hour  dimly  fore 
shadowed  to  me  then,  has  now  arrived,  and  I  see  in  it 
the  fulfilment  of  the  promise.  Happiness  is  before 


192  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

you.  You  have  but  to  reach  forth  your  hand  and  the 
prize  is  yours ;  and  to  see  you  happy  will  be  one  of 
the  greatest  pleasures  this  world  can  give. 

"I  have  but  one  thing  more  to  say  to  you.  Mary 
Jones  loves  you  now,  and  always  has.  Go  back  to  the 
first  warm  affection  of  your  heart.  It  is,  perhaps, 
less  devoted,  more  selfish  than  your  last,  but  I  doubt 
not  you  will  be  blessed  in  it,  and  at  all  events  you  can 
make  the  happiness  of  a  true-hearted  girl,  who  loves 
you  with  all  the  self-sacrificing  devotion  of  a  woman. 
Go  seek  her  pardon,  dear  Octave,  for  the  past,  and  be 
happy." 

"  Noble-minded,  excellent  woman,  and  do  you  think 
that  after  having  doomed  you  to  a  life  of  sorrow  and 
sickness,  I  could  leave  you  desolate  and  not  seek  to 
surround  you  with  all  the  delicate  attentions  of  love  ? 
Do  you  think,  my  poor  Marcia,  I  could  revel  in  the 
happiness  of  wedded  life,  with  a  gay,  rosy-lipped  bride, 
all  smiles  and  blushes,  while  you  sat,  pale  and  stricken, 
with  your  young  innocent  heart  crushed  within  you? 
Oh!  no,  Marcia,  never." 

"  Then,  Octave,  you  refuse  to  accord  me  the  only 
boon  I  ever  craved  at  your  hands  ?" 

"  I  would  make  any  sacrifice  in  the  world  for  you, 
Marcia.  I  would  lay  down  my  life,  at  this  moment,  if 
it  could  restore  you  to  health.  I  am  free.  Bound  by 
no  ties,  I  can  love  you.  I  have  a  right  to  do  so. 
Although  you  remain  indifferent  to  me,  it  is  a  pleasure 
to  me  to  be  near  you,  to  wait  upon  you,  to  indulge  my 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER.  193 

affection  toward  you,  and  I  make  no  secret  of  it.  I 
care  not  who  knows  it.  But  were  I  married,  you  must 
see  how  widely  different  the  case  would  be.  I  could 
no  longer  indulge  these  emotions  of  tenderness,  which 
in  honor  would  belong  to  my  wife.  My  love  for  you, 
and  my  duty  to  her,  would  be  a  constant  warfare 
within  me,  and  I  should  end  by  being  more  miserable 
than  ever. 

"And  then,  again,  I  should  be  debarred  from  the 
pleasure  of  your  society.  You  would  very  justly  be 
shocked  at  the  sight  of  the  man  who  gave  you  his 
heart,  and  swore  with  his  lips  to  love  another.  Oh, 
no,  Marcia,  I  cannot  make  this  sacrifice  of  myself, 
even  to  please  you." 

"  But,  Octave,  I  will  not  banish  you  from  me.  On 
the  contrary,  I  will  have  you  and  Mary  constantl 
with  me.  Indeed,  if  you  knew  how  I  had  set  my 
heart  on  this  match,  you  would  not  refuse  me.  I  see 
now  the  weakness  of  the  feelings  you  nrofess  for  me, 
since  you  will  not  please  me  even  in  this  small  mat 
ter." 

"  Come,  cousin,  I  will  compromise  with  you.  You 
will  acknowledge  Mary  to  be  a  girl  of  spirit.  Let  me 
go  to  her,  and  tell  her  frankly  all  you  say.  I  will  tell 
her  how  I  love  you,  and  you  only.  If  she  will  marry 
me  under  these  circumstances  I  will  wed  her.  Does 
that  please  you?" 

"Nay,  Octave,  consider.     Do  you  not  owe  some 
thing  to  the  girl  who  has  loved  and  cherished  your 
17* 


194  WAY-MAKES   IN   THE 

memory  ?  You  it  was  who  first  sought  her  affection. 
Do  not  trample  in  the  dust,  the  fond  loving  heart  she 
has  given  you." 

"  What,  then,  would  you  have  ?  Must  I  go  to  her 
and  tell  her  I  still  entertain  the  same  feelings  for  her 
I  did  when  first  I  sought  her  for  my  bride,  and  that  I 
have  come  to  claim  the  fulfilment  of  her  former  pro 
mise  ?  Now,  Marcia,  you  know  this  would  be  abso 
lute  falsehood." 

"  Surely,  Octave,  you  must  have  tact  enough  in 
these  matters  to  proffer  your  suit  in  gallant  terms, 
without  being  guilty  of  the  sin  of  falsehood,  and  with 
out  wounding  the  feelings  of  a  lovely  girl,  whose  only 
weakness  is  her  attachment  to  you." 

"Doubtless,  you  consider  it  a  great  weakness  for 
one  even  to  like  me,  you  hard-hearted  girl ;  but 
no,  I  will  not  say  that.  I  will  be  just,  and  acknow 
ledge  that  you  are  the  loveliest  of  your  sex.  Oh ! 
Marcia,  could  I  have  been  blessed  with  your  love,  I 
should  have  been  indeed  happy.  I  cannot  calmly 
make  up  my  mind  to  lose  you  forever.  But  I  will  do 
your  bidding.  You  shall  see  how  obediently  I  will 
;  sacrifice  myself  to  please  you.  I  will  make  my  de 
claration  to  Mary  Jones,  but  I  think  I  will  honestly 
confess  to  her  what  I  should  think  she  must  know 
already.  Indeed,  she  ought  to  know  that  she  has  you 
to  thank  for  her  happiness.  And  now,  having  dis 
missed  this  subject,  let  us  talk  of  something  more 


LIFE   OF   A  WANDEREK.  195 

pleasant.  Have  you  no  questions  to  ask  about  the 
children  ?  They  sent  you  a  world  of  love." 

"  Oh !  yes.  I  have  longed  for  an  opportunity  to 
talk  about  them  all.  I  should  like  much  to  see  them 
again.  How  is  my  sweet  Laurestina  ?  Has  she  for 
gotten  me  ?" 

"You  would  not  think  so,  if  you  could  hear  her 
talking  about  you.  She  is  fat  and  rosy,  and  learns 
rapidly.  She  seems  quite  fond  of  her  teacher,  who, 
by  the  by,  is  a  most  excellent  man.  I  feel  a  friend 
ship  for  him,  different  from  any  one  else.  I  consider 
his  character  worthy  of  imitation." 

"  So  I  thought  from  the  first." 

"  Then  you  were  pleased  with  him  ?" 

"  I  judged  from  what  I  saw  of  him,  he  would  be 
conscientious  in  the  discharge  of  his  duties  to  the 
children.  You  have  not  told  me  any  thing  about 
Gregory;  I  think  that  boy  is  a  prodigy.  He  has 
talents  that-  will  lead  him  to  great  ^minence,  and  a 
heart  that  will  win  him  the  friendship  of  all  who 
know  him." 

"  Gregory  is  certainly  an  uncommon  boy.  He  is 
making  great  progress  at  school.  It  pleases  me  very 
much  to  know  that  you  admire  him,  for  he  is  my 
favorite.  Would  you  believe  that  John,  lazy,  harem- 
scarem  John,  the  terror  of  all  sober  matrons,  is  ac 
tually  settling  down  quietly,  and  studying  with  a  zeal 
and  faithfulness,  you  would  scarcely  believe  possible, 
without  you  witnessed  it  yourself." 


196  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

"  Indeed.  I  am  glad  to  hear  it.  Has  he  at  last 
succeeded  in  mastering  those  Greek  characters  that 
were  such  a  terror  to  him?" 

"Long  since,  and  he  has  been  translating,  for 
months,  quite  handsomely.  To  tell  the  truth,  Harry 
Percy  has  a  way  of  teaching,  that  wins  the  hearts  of 
his  pupils.  I  consider  that  he  has  achieved  a  miracle 
in  the  case  of  John  Woodville,  and  I  do  regret  ex 
ceedingly,  that  at  the  end  of  the  year  he  leaves  us 
and  returns  to  New  York." 

"And  why  does  he  do  so?" 

"  I  know  not.  There  is  a  mystery  about  it,  that  I 
have  never  been  able,  or  rather,  I  should  say,  have 
never  sought  to  fathom." 

"  How  does  your  mother  like  the  idea  of  another 
niece,  Octave  ?  Was  she  pleased  to  learn  that  father 
had  adopted  me  as  his  child?" 

"  Indeed  she  was,  sweet  cousin  mine  ;  and  she  bade 
me  tell  you  she  ^ould  count  the  days  till  you  returned 
once  more  to  her  presence,  never  to  leave  it  again." 

"Excellent  woman.     I  am  not  ungrateful  for  her' 
affection,  and  there  is  only  one  thing  I  could  ask  for 
more." 

"  And  what  is  that,  my  cousin  ?  You  must  not 
hide  your  wishes  from  me." 

"Nay,  it  is  no  great  secret,  that  you  should  care 
for  the  possession  of  it,  as  if  it  were  a  matter  of  im 
portance  to  you.  It  is  simply  my  desire  to  be  with 
my  mother  and  brother.  I  cannot  reconcile  myself  to 


LIFE   OP  A  WANDERER.  197 

this  painful  separation,  and  I  feel  as  if  the  few  months 
I  spend  on  earth  would  be  much  happier  if  blessed 
with  my  mother's  smiles,  and  my  dear  little  Benny's 
artless  affection.  When  father  talks  of  taking  me 
back  to  New  York,  the  doctor  looks  grum,  shakes  his 
head  and  says  nothing,  but  then,  you  know,  Octave, 
there  is  a  great  deal  expressed  in  this  ominous  shak 
ing  of  the  head." 

"Don't  pretend  to  mind  what  the  doctors  say  or 
do.  Many  of  them  are  about  as  wise  as  so  many  apes, 
and  as  to  this  notion  you  have  got  about  dying,  it  is 
all  nonsense.  You  cannot  die  in  this  genial  climate, 
and  with  this  balmy  air.  It  is  impossible  for  death 
to  reach  you  here." 

"You  mean  kindness  by  what  you  say,  cousin,  but 
do  not  seek  to  unnerve  me  and  make  me  regard  with 
terror  what  is  inevitable.  I  need  rather  your  support 
and  encouragement,  and  I  must  learn  to  look  boldly 
in  the  face  that  doom  which  is  written  in  characters 
of  living  fire  on  my  heart." 

"  Oh !  Marcia,  how  can  I  hear  you  talk  thus,  and 
not  suffer  all  the  torturing  anguish  of  remorse  ?  Ah, 
Mary,  Mary,  I  could  curse  you  now." 

"  Do  not  upbraid  her.  Poor  girl,  she  has  had  her 
punishment  ere  this  in  her  own  conscience,  without 
doubt.  Forgive  her,  Octave,  and  remember  that — 

"  To  err  is  human;  to  forgive  divine." 

We  need  but  to  look  within  our  own  hearts  to  find 
enough  to  reform  and  improve.  Let  us  leave  to  God 


198  WAY-MARKS   IN  THE 

the  punishment  of  others,  and  recall  the  beautiful 
lines,  entitled,  'Speak  kindly  to  the  erring;'  which 
close  thus — 

"  Speak  kindly  to  the  erring — 

Thou  yet  mayst  lead  him  back, 
With  holy  words,  and  tones  of  love, 

From  misery's  thorny  track : 
Forget  not  thou  hast  often  sinned, 

And  sinful  yet  mayst  be ; 
Deal  kindly  with  the  erring  one, 

As  God  has  dealt  with  thee." 

But  tell  me,  Octave,  when  will  you  go  to  Mary 
Jones  and  make  her  happy  ?  The  quicker  the  better, 
you  know." 

"  I  will  go,  to-night — the  instant  my  uncle  comes 
in." 

"That  is  right.  There  is  nothing  like  dispatch. 
Then  you  must  come  to  me,  early  to-morrow  morning, 
and  tell  me  the  success  of  your  mission,  will  you  not  ? 
Now  don't  look  so  disconsolate.  One  would  suppose 
you  had  suicide  in  contemplation. '  It  is  droll  to  see 
a  man  look  so  solemn  when  he  is  on  the  eve  of  com 
mitting  matrimony." 

"  And  it  is  still  more  droll  for  a  man  to  marry  a 
woman  he  does  not  love,  merely  to  please  the  woman 
he  does.  This  is  an  enigma,  but  it  is  your  wish,  and 
I  know  no  other  law.  But,  Marcia,  are  you  not  afraid 
to  urge  me  to  take  these  false  vows  ?" 

"  Not  in  the  least,  for  once  married  to  Mary  you 
cannot  help  but  love  her,  and  the  affection  you  bear 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDEREE.  199 

me  will  grow  holier  and  purer  in  its  character ;  and 
you  will  at  last  regard  me  as  a  sister.  When  I  have 
thus  succeeded  in  reconciling  your  two  passions,  so  as 
to  do  violence  to  neither,  I  shall  be  indeed  happy, 
and  shall  feel  that  I  have  not  lived  altogether  in  vain, 
for  perhaps  without  my  interference  you  might  have 
followed  your  uncle's  example,  and  lived  to  be  a  child 
less  old  man." 

"  That  is  not  such  an  unblessed  life  with  Marcia 
for  my  daughter;"  said  Mr.  Woodville,  entering  the 
apartment  and  kissing  her  affectionately. 

"  I  go  to  fulfil  your  request,  Marcia,"  said  Octave, 
and  raising  her  hand  to  his  lips,  he  breathed  his  bles 
sings  upon  it  and  was  gone  to  fulfil  his  destiny. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

"  Deal  gently  then  and  suffer  me  to  feel 
The  vestal  flame  I  vainly  sought  to  quell ; 
It  shall  not  wrong  or  pain  thee ;  but  in  need 
Shall  be  thy  comfort,  and  shall  serve  thce  well. 
Though  timid  as  the  fawn  that  loves  the  wood, 
1  will  defy  all  powers  to  do  thee  good.1' 

I  do  not  know  what  will  be  thought  of  the  feeling 
that  prompted  our  heroine  to  act  in  the  manner  she 
did.  It  is  sufficient  to  me  that  she  did  it,  for  it  to 
gain  my  approval,  knowing,  as  I  do,  that  her  only 
motive  was  a  pure  and  disinterested  desire  for  the 
happiness  of  others. 


200  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

Octave  took  his  way,  with  a  wild  recklessness  of 
manner,  down  the  Rue  Royal  in  the  direction  of  the 
residence  of  Mr.  Kennet.  He  had  not  proceeded  far, 
when  some  one  called  him  by  name,  and  when  he 
turned  to  see  who  had  accosted  him,  he  recognized  a 
young  merchant  of  the  town  of  D.,  in  Georgia,  who 
stood  conversing  with  a  tall  gentleman,  that  he  pre 
sented  to  Octave  as  Doctor  Stansberry.  The  very 
same  before-mentioned  personage  who  figured  in 
£ate  Rennet's  conversation  of  the  morning.  The 
party  were  soon  conversing  gaily  together,  and  agreed 
to  repair  to  a  neighboring  hotel,  to  have  a  regular 
lark.  Two  hours  passed  by,  and  at  length  Octave, 
elated  with  wine,  recalled  his  promise  to  Marcia,  to 
go  at  once  to  seek  Mary,  and  nerved  to  his  task, 
which  he  could  not  help  feeling  to  be  a  hard  one,  tore 
himself  away  from  his  gay  companions,  and  started 
once  more  on  his  errand.  He  reached  the  house  and 
rang  the  bell.  A  negro  slave  answered  the  summons, 
"is  Miss  Jones  in?" 

"She  is — would  massa  please  follow  him  to  the 
drawing  room?" 

Octave  entered  this  fairy  scene,  which  I  have  al 
ready  described.  Kate  and  her  father  and  mother 
were  there.1  ^Gay,  brilliant,  sarcastic,  she  sat,  queen 
of  beauty,  surrounded  by  a  circle  of  the  most  eligible 
young  men  in  New  Orleans,  all  striving  to  please  the 
capricious  beauty,  who  regarded  them  with  much  less 
respect  than  she  did  her  pet  monkey. 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER.  201 

;       f 

Mr.  Kennet  expressed  his  pleasure  at  Octave's 
visit.  Mrs.  Kennet  received  him  graciously,  and  Kate 
•with  a  demure  smile ;  but  Mary  was  no  where  to  be 
seen. 

For  a  moment  Octave  was  glad  that  such  was  the 
case,  but  the  next  he  regretted  it,  for  he  had  made  up 
his  mind  resolutely  and  firmly  how  to  act,  and  the 
sooner  he  got  through  the  unpleasant  business  the 
better.  He  determined  not  to  retract,  but  to  perform 
Marcia's  wishes  at  all  hazards.  Putting  a  bold  face 
on  the  matter,  and  willing  even  to  risk  the  quizing 
of  the  merciless  little  torturer,  Kate,  he  asked  her 
where  Miss  Jones  was,  this  evening  ? 

"  She  retired  to  her  room  quite  soon  after  tea,  with 
a  sick  head-ache.  Shall  I  tell  her  you  want  to  see 
her?" 

"  Oh  no,  do  not  disturb  her  now  upon  my  account ; 
but  please  say  to  her  that  I  will  call  to-morrow  morn 
ing,  and  that  I  wish  to  see  her  particularly." 

"I  will  certainly  do  so,  but  pray  do  not  hurry  away 
so,  merely  because  Miss  Jones  is  not  visible." 

"  I  would  stay  with  great  pleasure,  but  Miss  Walton 
is  an  invalid  you  know,  and  I  don't  like  to  neglect  her, 
so  you  will  please  excuse  me  to-night." 

Octave  made  his  adieu  and  retired  to  return  at 
once,  to  Marcia  and  Mr.  Woodville,  and  he  sat  up  till 
a  late  hour  amusing  them  with  the  wild  gayety  of  his 
spirits.  Marcia  thought  she  had  never  seen  him  ap 
pear  to  so  much  advantage,  and  she  was  at  a  loss  to 
18 


202  WAY-MARKS   IN  THE 

reconcile  his  mirth  with  the  sacrifice  she  had  imposed 
upon  him.  She  knew  not  that  he  was  dissembling  his 
real  feelings,  lest  he  should  give  her  pain. 

When,  at  length,  they  separated  for  the  night,  Octave 
in  the  solitude  of  his  own  chamber,  gave  himself 
up  to  the  bitterness  of  his  feelings,  and  walked,  with 
wild  impatience  up  and  down,  muttering  to  himself, 
and  exciting  his  already  agitated  mind.  But,  after  a 
time,  he  grew  calmer,  and  sitting  down  by  his  writing 
table  he  leaned  his  face  upon  his  hands,  and  fell  into 
a  fit  of  musing.  Could  we  have  looked  into  his  heart, 
we  might  have  seen  some  such  thoughts  as  these : 

"  Let  me  imitate  her  example,  and  think  less  of  self. 
Has  she  not  acted  nobly?  What  motive  could 
have  prompted  her,  but  Mary's  happiness  and  my 
own  ?" 

Oh,  Marcia,  you  are  too  good  for  me.  I  feel  that 
sensibly.  Dear  girl,  your  lonely  heart  pines  for  your 
mother's  presence,  and  it  shall  not  pine  in  vain.  Let 
me  see  how  I  shall  manage  the  affair. — Ah,  I  have  it." 

Octave  unlocked  his  writing  desk  and  wrote  two  let 
ters.  One  was  to  his  mother,  the  other  to  his  cousin 
John.  I  will  copy  them,  in  order  that  you  may  be 
come  acquainted  with  their  contents. 

NEW  ORLEANS,  January  20th,  18 — . 
My  dear  Mother : 

I  have  arrived,  as  you  see,  at  my  journey's 
end,  and  have  seen  Marcia,  Flora,   and  my  uncle. 


LIFE  OF  A  WANDERER.  203 

The  two  last  are  in  excellent  health,  but  the  former  I 
cannot  help  trembling  for.  I  fear  not  only  from  what 
I  have  seen  myself,  but  from  what  the  physician  has 
told  me,  that  a  few  months  at  most  must  close  her  pil 
grimage  on  earth.  The  anguish  I  experience  as  this 
truth  forces  itself  upon  me,  will  doubtless  be  under 
stood  by  your  affectionate  heart,  and  I  will  not  at 
tempt  to  dwell  upon  my  feelings. 

Marcia  bears  her  fate  with  a  resignation  and  obe 
dience  to  the  Will  of  God  quite  touching  in  one  so 
young.  My  heart,  that  has  always  rebelled  against 
religion,  begins  to  acknowledge  its  wonderful  power, 
at  the  sight  of  this  young  girl,  so  fitted  by  her  superior 
accomplishments  to  adorn  the  world,  so  constituted  to 
enjoy  its  pleasures,  and  yet  resolutely,  and  with  a 
heroism  worthy  of  her  high  intelligence,  looking  calmly 
in  the  face  a  doom,  sad  enough  to  intimidate  the 
stoutest  heart.  Sometimes  she  gives  way  to  the  de 
pression  of  her  feelings,  but  oftener,  to  amuse  my  uncle 
and  make  him  light-hearted,  she  mingles  in  conver 
sation  with  all  the  playful  grace  which  is  so  natural 
to  her,  and  seems  for  the  moment  to  forget  the  heavy 
sorrow  which  has  mingled  itself  with  every  drop  in 
her  cup  of  life. 

You  know,  my  dear  mother,  it  is  our  duty  as  well 
as  our  wish  to  make  every  atonement  in  our  power  to 
one  who  suffers  thus  severely  for  my  crime.  Marcia 
told  me  to-day  that  she  had  only  one  thing  left  to 
wish  for,  and  with  me  her  slightest  wish  is  a  com- 


204  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

mand,  as  you  well  know.  She  longs  for  the  society  of 
her  mother  and  brother,  and  as  it  is  impossible  for  her 
to  go  to  New  York,  I  have  been  thinking  of  another 
means  to  bring  them  together. 

From  what  I  can  glean  of  my  uncle's  intentions,  he 
will  only  remain  here  a  few  weeks  longer,  until  Marcia 
is  weary  of  the  place.  We  shall  then  visit  Mobile, 
and  after  remaining  there  some  weeks,  will  return  to 
Georgia.  Now,  it  is  my  desire  that  you  write,  as  deli 
cately  as  you  can,  your  wish  that  Mrs.  Walton  should 
visit  us  about  the  first  of  March,  by  which  time  we 
shall  either  have  returned,  or  be  on  our  way  home. 
It  will  be  neccessary  to  hint,  in  delicate  terms,  Marcia's 
failing  health,  and  endeavor  to  prepare  her  mind  for 
the  loss  she  must  sustain ;  and  yet  I  would  not  have 
you  altogether  deprive  her  of  hope.  None  can  know 
better  than  yourself,  my  dear  mother,  how  to  word 
such  a  letter.  When  written  you  can  intrust  it  to 
John,  and  I  will  write  him,  by  this  mail,  full  instruc 
tions  how  to  act,  in  going  on  to  bring  her.  I  think  it 
would  be  useless  for  him  to  start  till  late  in  February, 
allowing  time  for  the  journey  there  and  back  by  the 
first  of  March.  Should  any  alarming  symptoms  occur, 
I  will,  however,  instantly  apprise  you,  and  then  he 
can  set  out  at  once. 

I  am  aware  that  I  need  not  urge  upon  you,,  any 
reason  why  you  should  perform  my  request,  satisfied 
as  I  am  in  my  own  mind  that  your  kind  heart  fully 
sympathizes  with  your  affectionate  son, 

OCTAVE. 


LIFE   OF  A   WANDERER.  205 

P.  S.  I  forgot  to  say  that  I  am  going  to  be  married. 
Were  it  not  for  that,  I  would  go  myself  to  New  York 
after  Mrs.  Walton,  but  indeed  I  cannot  endure  sepa 
ration  for  a  moment  from  my  tenderly-loved  Marcia. 

0.  W. 

The  other  letter,  to  John  Woodville,  ran  thus  : 

NEW  ORLEANS,  January  20th,  18 — . 
My  dear  John : 

Although  you  are  such  a  wild  boy,  I  have 
deemed  it  expedient  to  intrust  you  with  some  busi 
ness,  which,  if  well  performed,  will  not  lose  its  reward 
in  a  certain  quarter  indicated  by  two  K's — and  I  sin 
cerely  trust  that  the  natural  kindness  of  your  heart 
will  induce  you  to  throw  aside  for  a  time  your  charac 
ter  as  a  madcap ;  and  merge  all  your  energy  in  the 
business  I  set  before  you. 

It  is  a  melancholy  fact,  my  dear  boy,  that  the  lovely 
girl  who  left  her  Northern  home  to  find  health  and 
healing  in  our  sunny  climate,  is  fast  fading  away 
from  earth.  Nothing  can  save  her.  The  fiat  has 
gone  forth,  and  the  sands  in  the  life-glass  are  daily 
wasting.  I  shall  pass  over  all  my  own  feelings  in 
this  matter,  and  come  to  speak  of  the  duty  which 
you  are  called  upon  to  perform. 

It  is  necessary  for  some  one  to  go  for  Mrs.  Walton, 
and  break  to  her,  in  delicate  terms,  the  continued  ill 
ness  of  her  daughter.     I  have  chosen  you  for  this 
mission,  and  I  want  you  to  be  her  traveling  companion 
18* 


206  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

to  Georgia.  You  must  try,  by  every  possible 
means,  to  soothe  her  distress,  surround  her  with  com 
forts,  and  pay  her  every  delicate  attention,  that  you 
would  your  own  mother  if  she  were  living. 

I  depend  upon  you,  John,  to  take  this  matter  in 
your  hands,  and  to  act  with  all  becoming  dignity  and 
propriety,  and  I  do  not  fear  that  you  will  fail  in  any 
part  of  your  duty.  Mother  will  tell  you  when  to  start 
for  New  York. 

Give  my  respects  to  Harry  Percy,  and  tell  him  I 
will  write  to  him  in  a  few  days.  In  the  meantime  as 
sure  him  of  my  high  regard.  Give  love  to  all  the 
children,  and  believe  me 

Your  affectionate  uncle, 

OCTAVE  WOODVILLE. 

The  letters  written,  sealed  and  directed,  and  sent 
by  a  waiter  of  the  hotel  to  the  office,  Octave  retired, 
to  gain  in  sleep  some  hours  of  oblivion  from  a  fate 
which  he  considered  hopeless  and  sad  beyond  com 
pare. 

The  next  morning,  after  breakfast,  with  his  uncle 
and  cousin,  he  left  the  hotel  and  went  to  call  on  Mary 
Jones.  He  was  shown  into  a  little,  private  parlor, 
and  after  waiting  some  considerable  time,  Mary,  pale 
and  dejected,  entered  noiselessly  and  approached  him. 

Octave  rose  and  advanced  towards  her  with  a  smile, 
which  was  instantly  checked  however,  by  the  serious 
manner  with  which  she  received  him.  The  usual 


LIFE   OF  A   WANDERER.  207 

common-places  of  the  day  were  canvassed,  but  Octave, 
anxious  to  please  Marcia,  resolved  to  open  at  once  the 
object  of  his  visit.  He  said — 

"  Let  us  forget  the  past,  Mary,  and  be  the  friends 
we  were  when  first  I  sought  your  hand.  Ah,  we 
were  happy  then,  for  the  world  was  bright  with  hope, 
and  oft 

"At  noon 

We  sat  beneath  the  arching  vines  and  wondered 
Why  Earth  could  be  unhappy,  while  the  Heavens 
Still  left  us  youth  and  love." 

Since  then  Mary,  I  have  been  cold  to  you.  You  have 
suffered  much  on  my  account  and  I  come  to  make  you 
every  reparation  in  my  power.  I  sought  your  love, 
and  then  left  you  in  a  fit  of  jealousy.  I  ask  your 
pardon  for  all  the  harshness  I  have  used  towards  you. 
I  come  to  you  this  morning  to  renew  my  vows  at  the 
shrine  of  your  faithful  heart,  to  ask  you  to  be  my 
wife,  and  I  promise  to  make  you  as  happy  as  I  possi 
bly  can.  Will  you  accept  me  now,  Mary,  and  be 
content  to  waive  coqueting  for  the  present?" 

Although  the  words  were  all  that  they  should  have 
been  on  the  occasion,  yet  the  manner  was  cold,  stern 
and  haughty,  that  of  a  person  who  confers  a  favor 
rather  than  of  one  who  seeks  it ;  but  Mary  was  blind 
to  this,  or  rather  she  imagined  she  saw  in  it  a  contri 
tion  for  the  past,  which  his  proud  spirit  felt  and  yet 
struggled  against  acknowledging.  She  believed  the 
scene  she  had  partly  witnessed  the  last  evening  was 


208  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

misunderstood  on  her  part.  Perhaps  she  thought 
Octave  was  at  that  moment  showing  his  love  for  her, 
by  a  reconciliation  Marcia  had  proposed  between 
them.  She  gave  herself  up  to  the  joyous  emotions 
that  filled  her  heart,  and  crowned  her  girlish  love. 

Do  you  accuse  her  of  want  of  spirit  ?  Remember 
that  Octave  had  purposely  avoided  saying  aught  to 
her  that  could  wound  her  feelings,  and  he  concluded 
to  make  a  compromise  with  his  conscience,  that  he 
might  spare  her  the  pain  of  knowing  that  his  love  for 
another  had  alone  brought  him  to  terms  with  her.  I 
believe,  with  very  good  reason,  that  if  Mary  had 
known  the  state  of  his  feelings,  she  would  have  spurn 
ed  him  from  her  in  righteous  anger;  nor  could  you 
have  blamed  her  if  she  had. 

"Dear  Mary,"  asked  Octave,  "will  you  accept  or 
refuse  me  ?  I  want  yes  or  no,  and  I  think  you  will 
not  try  to  tease  me  any  more,  now  that  you  have  found 
out  the  weakness  of  my  temper." 

"  This  is  my  answer,  then,"  said  Mary,  and  she  laid 
her  innocent  head  upon  his  shoulder,  and  burst  into 
tears,  not  tears  of  sorrow,  but  joy,  joy  so  great  that 
her  full  heart  was  forced  to  seek  relief.  A  woman's 
remedy,  'tis  true,  but  who  shall  say  it  was  not  a  good 

o  • 

one : 

Now,  although  Octave  had  steeled  himself  against 
softness;  although  he  no  longer  loved  Mary  Jones, 
and  though  by  his  very  present  offer  of  marriage  ho 
was  only  obeying  a  mandate  of  the  passion  which 


LIFE   OF  A   WANDERER.  209 

reigned  supreme  in  his  heart  for  another,  yet  he  could 
not,  all  unmoved,  behold  her  tears,  the  cause  of  which 
he  could  not  interpret ;  neither  could  he  resist  the 
gentle  emotions  which  stole  over  him,  as  he  felt  the 
touch  of  her  innocent  head  upon  his  shoulder,  laid 
there  in  the  holy  trust  and  confidence  of  her  girlish 
heart.  Thoughts  of  earlier  days  crowded  around  him. 
He  recalled  the  time  when,  pure  and  innocent,  he  had 
shrunk  from  every  thought  of  evil.  Since  then  his 
soul  had  become  contaminated,  but  still  the  old  feel 
ings  of  innocence  and  truth  hovered  around  him.  His 
heart  softened  as  he  gazed  on  the  gentle  girl  at  his 
side,  and  yielding  to  the  tender  emotions  of  his  soul, 
he  passed  his  arm  around  her  waist,  and  turning  her 
face  towards  his  own,  he  kissed  away  the  tears  that 
sullied  her  cheeks,  and  pressing  his  lips  upon  her  pure 
white  brow,  he  promised  himself  that  he  would  seek 
her  happiness  always  in  preference  to  his  own,  and 
never  suffer  aught  of  sorrow  to  cloud  the  pathway  of 
her  life. 

An  hour  quickly  passed  away,  and  Octave,  rousing 
himself,  said  he  must  return  to  Marcia.  She  would 
be  lonely  without  him. 

"  Do  you  know,"  sg,id  Mary,  playfully,  "  I  was  half 
inclined  to  be  jealous  of  Marcia,  last  night  ?" 

Mary  could  not  have  chosen  a  mone  unfitting  sub 
ject.  A  scowl,  black  as  midnight,  passed  over  Octave's 
face,  and  he  said  sternly, — 

"If  ever  a  thought  of  that  kind  presents  itself 


210  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

again,  I  pray  you  will  hide  it  from  me.  Indeed, 
Mary,  nothing  will  please  me  more  than  to  see  you 
devote  yourself  and  your  kindest  attentions  to  that 
sweet  girl.  She  will  not  be  spared  to  us  long  and 
I — I  love  her — as  a  sister.  (God  forgive  me  the 
story.") 

"You  have  scarcely  need  to  mention  your  wish, 
dear  Octave.  I  look  upon  Marcia  as  something  better 
than  human.  She  seems  to  me  like  an  angel,  re 
moved  from  all  the  failings  and  short-comings  of  poor 
human  nature." 

"You  say  well,  she  is  an  angel,  or  like  one.  I 
must  return  to  her  at  once.  Come  and  see  her  to 
day.  Stay  with  her  as  much  as  you  can.  Poor  thing, 
she  misses  and  pines  for  her  mother." 

"I  will  come  after  dinner;  this  evening." 

"  That  is  right.     Now  good  bye.     Be  a  good  girl." 

"  One  word  before  you  go,  Octave.  Do  you  love 
me  with  your  whole  heart  ?" 

"  Oh !  exacting  woman.  I  will  not  satisfy  your 
curiosity.  Be  satisfied  that  I  think  you  a  very  nice 
little  girl." 

A  hurried  kiss,  a  pressure  of  the  hand,  and  he  was 
gone.  Gone  to  the  presence  of  her,  before  whom 
Mary,  and  all  the  devotion  of  her  true  heart  were  for 
gotten.  Ah !  had  she  but  known  how  cold  and  in 
different  he  was  to  her ;  what  a  struggle  it  cost  him 
to  marry  her ; — but  why  this  list  of  arguments  ?  She 
did  not  know — she  was  deceived  in  him,  and  such 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER.  211 

things  happen  every  day.  This  is  no  overdrawn  pic 
ture.  I  will  depict  you  one  that  happened  a  short 
time  ago  in  New  York,  which  I  know  to  be  strictly 
true. 

I  knew  a  young  man,  a  few  years  ago,  a  gay,  wild, 
high-spirited  fellow, — the  life  of  every  party.  His 
face  was  always  lit  up  with  smiles,  and  he  seemed 
formed  for  the  enjoyment  of  earth's  greatest  happi 
ness.  His  mother  was  dead,  but  his  father  doated  on 
him  and  indulged  his  every  whim.  There  resided  in 
the  family  a  young  girl,  who  had  been  left  an  orphan, 
in  destitute  circumstances,  by  a  cousin  or  some  other 
relation,  and  the  two  children  had  been  brought  up 
together  like  brother  and  sister. 

One  summer,  young  Graham  was  attacked  with  ill 
ness,  and  after  having  recovered  from  it,  he  went,  by 
the  desire  of  his  father,  to  Canada,  where  he  got  ac 
quainted  with  a  young  and  lovely  girl,  to  whom  he 
became  very  soon  warmly  attached.  He  proposed 
and  was  accepted,  and  the  young  lovers  gave  them 
selves  up  to  all  the  happiness  which  was  to  be  ex 
pected  from  their  sincere  affection. 

But,  alas,  the  dream  of  love  was  of  short  continu 
ance.  One  day,  Graham  received  a  letter  from  his 
adopted  sister,  stating  that  the  cholera  had  broken 
out  in  New  York,  that  his  father  had  been  attacked 
with  it,  and  was  then  lying  very  low,  and  wished  to 
see  his  son  immediately. 


212  WAY-MARKS   IN    THE 

Graham  took  an  affectionate  but  hasty  farewell  of 
his  betrothed,  and  promised  her  soon  to  return.  He 
then  started  for  home,  which  he  reached  just  in  time 
to  receive  his  father's  dying  wish  and  blessing.  The 
old  man's  eyes  brightened  as  he  saw  his  son.  Taking 
his  hand,  he  placed  it  in  that  of  his  ward,  and  said, — 
"  Take  her,  my  son,  and  God  bless  you."  The  next 
moment  he  was  a  corpse. 

There  was  a  struggle  in  the  heart  of  that  poor  boy 
which  for  some  time  made  him  miserable.  He  dearly 
loved  his  father,  and  he  called  to  mind  his  many  acts 
of  kindness  and  affection,  and  wept  at  the  remem 
brance.  And  again,  he  found  that  his  fair  young 
cousin  was  very  much  attached  to  him,  and  regarded 
him  as  her  future  husband.  He  resolved  upon  his 
duty,  conquered  his  love  and  sacrificed  his  own  happi 
ness  and  that  of  the  fair  English  girl  on  the  altar  of 
filial  duty.  He  married  his  father's  ward,  and  I  know 
he  has  striven  to  make  her  happy ;  but  he  often  leaves 
her  to  visit  a  quiet  spot,  far  away  to  the  north,  where 
a  slab  of  pure  white  marble,  bearing  the  simple  in 
scription  of  "Helen,  aged  seventeen,"  marks  the  last 
resting  place  of  his  first  and  only  love. 

But,  to  return  to  our  story.  Octave  entered  the 
room  where  Marcia  sat,  and  throwing  himself  upon 
the  sofa,  said, — 

"Well,  there,  I  have  done  it." 

"  Done  what  ?"  asked  Mr.  "Woodville. 


LIFE   OF  A   WANDERER.  213 

"Proposed  to  Mary  Jones  and  been  accepted,"  said 
Octave,  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  is  just  going  to  be 
led  to  the  stake  as  a  martyr. 

"  That  was  the  best  thing  I  ever  knew  you  to  do. 
Who  put  it  into  your  head?"  asked  Mr.  Woodville. 

"  Do  you  mean  by  that  to  intimate,  uncle,  that  no 
good  thing  could  originate  in  my  head?" 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  know  a  great  many  have  ori 
ginated  there,  but  none,  I  believe,  so  self-sacrificing 
as  this." 

"Then  you  appreciate  it,  uncle?" 

"  I  do,  my  boy,  I  do,  and  I  trust  that  you  may  be  hap 
py  in  your  wedded  life,  and  I  doubt  not  that  you  will." 

"  Blessed  with  the  love  of  such  a  girl  as  Mary  Jones, 
you  cannot  well  help  being  happy,"  said  Marcia,  with 
a  smile  so  sweet  that  it  soothed  Octave's  spirit,  and 
reconciled  him  to  his  duty.  He  drew  up  a  chair  and 
took  a  seat  beside  her,  and  Flora  said  to  him,  with  a 
mischievous  smile, — 

"  So,  Mary  Jones  is  to  be  my  aunt,  after  all  ?" 

"  Be  quiet,  you  tease,  or  I  will  tangle  all  your 
worsted." 

"  You  would  be  afraid  to  do  it,  before  Marcia,  and 
besides  you  would  not  find  it  much  to  your  interest  in 
the  end,  for  I  would  give  these  slippers  I  am  working 
to  somebody  else." 

"And  that  is  the  way  you  would  punish  me,  you 
spiteful  thing.  Now,  pray  be  quiet.  Marcia,  talk  to 
me,  wont  you?" 

19 


214  WAY-MAKKS  IN   THE 

"What  shall  I  talk  about,  Octave?" 

"  Tell  me  how  you  feel,  what  you  think ;  any  thing, 
in  short,  that  relates  to  yourself,  and  will  fill  my  ears 
with  the  sound  of  your  voice." 

"  I  feel  well,  Octave ;  indeed  I  can  complain  of 
nothing  but  this  extreme  weakness.  I  can  not  ride  or 
walk,  and  sometimes  talk  without  feeling  fatigued; 
but  I  do  not  think  that,  in  this  sensible  decay  of  my 
physical  powers,  I  feel  the  least  weakness  of  my  mind ; 
on  the  contrary,  my  perceptive  powers  seem  to  be 
quickened,  and  things  that  formerly  appeared  obstru 
ent  and  intricate  to  me,  are  now  clear  as  the  sun  at 
noon-day." 

"And  to  what  do  you  attribute  the  change?" 

"  I  know  not,  unless  it  be  that  the  soul,  as  it  throws 
off  its  mortal  tenement  and  soars  higher  and  nearer 
its  native  heaven,  partakes  more  and  more  of  the 
divine  nature  from  which  it  emanated.  Indeed,  I 
think  this  must  be  the  case,  for  ever  since  I  have 
looked  upon  death  as  certain  in  a  short  time,  I  have 
felt  within  me  an  intelligence  which  amazes  me.  I 
look  back  with  wonder  at  the  ties  that  bound  me  to 
earth,  and  seemed  so  dear,  and  dear  they  are  still ; 
but  infinitely  more  precious  to  me  is  the  love  of  the 
Savior  who  has  redeemed,  and  the  God  who  has  up 
held  me.  Beyond  this  vale  of  tears,  there  is  no  more 
time,  and  it  will  seem  but  like  the  twinkling  of  an  eye, 
when  all  I  leave  behind  me  here,  will  join  me  in  that 
better  world  to  which  I  go." 


LIFE   OP   A   WANDERER.  215 

"  And  must  you  go  ?  Must  you  leave  me,  my  poor 
child?"  asked  Mr.  Woodville,  deeply  affected. 

"It  must  be,  dear  father,  and  it  is  better  thus. 
What  is  life  at  the  best.  Is  it  not  a  stormy  sea  on 
which  we  are  tossed  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave  ?  Of 
what  avail  are  its  honors,  its  gold  or  fame  ?  Are  they 
not  all  perishable  ?  Does  not  the  experience  of  old 
age  daily  teach  us,  that  happiness  is  not  to  be  found 
in  aught  earth  can  bestow  ?  Ah  !  believe  me,  the 
human  soul  was  created  for  a  higher  destiny.  No 
thing  this  world  has  to  give,  can  satisfy  the  yearnings 
of  the  deathless  spirit,  and  hence  it  is  that  happiness 
is  a  phantom  that  smiles  but  to  deceive  us,  for  God's 
own  presence  is  necessary  to  the  perfection  of  the 
bliss  which  shall  fill  to  the  uttermost  the  spark  that 
emanated  from  Himself:  or  in  other  words,  the  soul 
is  incapable  in  itself  of  realizing  its  own  capacities, 
and  can  be  awakened  to  clear  perceptions  only  by  the 
animating  presence  of  its  Maker, — God. 

"  Thus  it  is,  that,  failing  in  health,  knowing  that  I 
must  leave  this  world,  ere  I  have  tasted  of  its  cup  of 
pleasure ;  ere  I  have  strayed  through  its  flowery  walks 
that  look  so  tempting ;  or  plucked  one  of  the  beautiful 
blossoms  that  grow  on  the  way-side,  I  can  say,  with  a 
pious  trust  and  holy  confidence  in  the  Father,  I 
loved  the  dear  ones  thou  didst  give  me ;  I  might  have 
chosen  at  least  to  live  till  I  had  tried  the  realities  of 
life,  and  proved  to  my  mother  a  solace  in  her  declin 
ing  years ;  but,  by  thy  holy  revealings  of  the  spirit- 


216  WAY-MARKS   IN  THE 

land ;  by  the  glimpses  of  heaven  thou  hast  shown  me 
through  the  starry  skies ;  by  all  I  know  of  thy  infinite 
love,  I  can  say, — let  me  die — let  me  die. 

'  The  world  can  nevor  give, 

The  bliss  for  which  we  sigh  ; 
'Tis  not  the  whole  of  life  to  livo, 

Nor  all  of  death  to  die.'  " 


CHAPTER  XII. 

"  Go,  gladly,  with  true  sympathy, 

Where  want's  pale  victims  pine ; 
And  bid  life's  sweetest  smiles  again, 

Along  their  pathway  shine." 

There  was  joy  and  merriment  in  Mr.  Rennet's 
house.  Many  lights  shone  through  the  richly  em 
broidered  curtains.  The  hall  door  was  thrown  open, 
and  as  the  numerous  carriages  drove  up  and  deposited 
their  occupants  on  the  side  walk,  they  were  received 
by  liveried  servants,  and  shown  into  the  dressing 
rooms. 

"  Pray,  what  is  going  on  here?"  asked  a  young  lady 
who  was  passing,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  a  gentleman. 

"Nothing  but  a  wedding,"  was  the  reply. 

Let  us  enter.  You  and  I  are  privileged  charac 
ters,  you  know.  Let  us  see  for  ourselves  the  interior 
of  this  splendid  mansion. 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDEREK.  217 

You  have  already  been  introduced  to  the  elegant 
drawing  rooms  of  Mr.  Kennet.  Imagine  them  lighted 
with  gas  burners,  incased  in  richly  cut  shades  of  rose 
color,  diffusing  that  dreamy  light  so  inexpressibly 
soothing  to  the  senses,  and  you  may  form  some  idea 
of  the  exquisite  beauty  of  the  scene.  The  paintings, 
with  their  superb  frames  and  gorgeous  coloring,  the 
rich  carpets  and  elegant  furniture,  covered  with  yel 
low  satin  damask,  and  then,  opening  before  you,  the 
conservatory,  lighted  with  its  Chinese  lanterns  of  blue, 
pink  and  yellow  silk,  hanging  amid  the  clustering  vine 
leaves,  formed  a  picture  of  dazzling  splendor.  But 
let  us  not  except  that  portion  of  the  scene  which  was 
like  the  stars  are  to  the  dark  and  rayless  night,  name 
ly,  the  splendid,  bewitching,  black-eyed,  raven-haired 
belles  of  Orleans.  None  but  those  who  have  seen 
them,  can  form  any  idea  of  the  perfect  clearness  of 
complexion,  rich  beauty  of  the  thick,  waving  hair,  and 
bewildering  brightness  of  the  intensely  black-eyes 
which  characterize  these  houries  of  the  sunny  South. 
And  now  to  see  them  dressed  in  a  style  only  under 
stood  by  the  French ;  a  mingling  of  elegance  and  sim 
plicity  ;  a  perfect  adaptation  of  color  and  style  to  the 
peculiar  appearance  and  figure  of  each;  to  see  the 
glistening  of  diamonds  from  amid  the  black,  braided 
hair ;  the  thousand  fires  of  rubies,  strung  in  chains  and 
twined  around  the  most  exquisite  throats  in  the  world ; 
the  rich  beauty  of  emeralds,  with  their  superb  settings 
of  gold,  was  enough  to  make  you  think  that  earth  has 
19* 


218  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

really  charms,  notwithstanding  all  that  has  been  said 
to  the  contrary. 

But  see — here  comes  a  vision  of  beauty,  not  such 
as  I  have  been  describing,  but  the  very  reverse,  and 
yet  not  less  lovely  from  contrast.  Light  auburn  hair, 
blue  eyes,  and  a  fair  wax-like  face,  rarely  seen  but  in 
the  children  of  the  North.  Such  was  Marcia.  Her 
dress  was  of  the  purest  white,  and  her  only  ornament 
that  of  a  meek  and  quiet  spirit.  Her  cheek  seemed 
to  rival  her  dress  in  snowy  whiteness,  and  yet  she  was 
the  loveliest  of  the  lovely,  and  the  fairest  of  the  fair. 
Like  those  light,  airy  beings  of  the  imagination,  that 
flit  around  us  in  dreams,  she  walked  among  them,  and 
the  gay  crowd  parted  to  let  her  pass,  with  that  instinc 
tive  delicacy  which  is  ever  paid  in  the  circles  of  the 
rich  and  nobly  born,  to  those  whose  virtues  more  than 
beauty  make  them  pre-eminent. 

Will  you  forgive  our  fair  heroine,  if,  as  she  took  her 
seat,  and  her  beautiful  eyes  wandered  over  the  scene 
of  elegance  and  taste  which  surrounded  her,  she 
thought,  for  one  moment,  of  the  sad  contrast  her  own 
fate  presented,  and  wept  one  tear,  wrung  from  the 
memory  of  departed  hope  ?  Had  she  not  done  so,  she 
had  been  either  less  or  more  than  human. 

Many  of  the  gay  assemblage  knew  Marcia,  and  had 
met  her  previously  at  the  soirees  of  the  hotels,  but 
there  were  others  who  pressed  around  with  eager  curi 
osity,  and  beseiged  their  more  favored  friends  for  in 
troductions.  Nothing  pleased  Mr.  "Woodville  so  much 


LIFE   OF   A  WANDERER.  219 

as  these  marks  of  attention  to  the  fondly-loved  child 
of  his  adoption. 

It  is  a  singular  circumstance  that  these  Southern 
men,  surrounded  as  they  are  by  the  most  brilliant 
beauty,  often  turn  from  it  wearied,  to  welcome  the  fair 
Northerner,  who  is  not,  in  my  opinion,  half  so  lovely. 
I  think  it  must  be  novelty  that  attracts  them,  for  it 
seems  to  me  that  our  Northern  beauty  becomes  quite 
tame  and  common-place  beside  her  Southern  sister. 
Of  course,  I  do  not  speak  individually,  for  I  have 
found  specimens  of  beauty  in  every  city  I  have  visited. 

The  Reverend  Mr.  S.  was  announced,  and  imme 
diately  the  bridal  party  entered  and  took  their  places 
before  him.  Mary  looked  lovely,  as  all  brides  do,  and 
the  snowy  veil,  and  wreath  of  orange  blossoms,  culled 
from  Mr.  Rennet's  conservatory,  became  her  well. 
Octave  stood  erect  and  manly  beside  her,  and  Marcia 
thought  she  never  had  seen  him  look  so  well.  The  cere 
mony  was  performed  that  was  to  bind  them  together 
for  life,  and  the  fair,  blushing  bride  received  the  con 
gratulations  of  her  friends,  foremost  of  whom  was 
Marcia. 

If  you  supposed  in  the  commencement  of  this  story, 
that  all  difficulties  and  differences  of  opinion  would  be 
cleared  away,  and  Marcia  would  become  the  bride  of 
the  wealthy  planter,  you  have  now  learned  your  mis 
take.  In  works  of  romance  it  is  quite  necessary  that 
some  suitor,  possessed  of  immense  wealth,  should  ap- 


220  WAY-MARKS  IN  THE 

pear  and  wed  the  heroine,  but  as  this  story  is  written 
from  real  life,  where  this  rarely  occurs,  you  will  par 
don  me  if  I  disappoint  your  expectations  in  this  parti 
cular. 

At  an  early  hour,  Marcia,  fatigued  with  the  amuse 
ments  of  the  evening,  stole  away,  accompanied  by  her 
father,  and  as  she  left  far  behind  the  brilliant  scene, 
the  happy  bride,  and  the  gay  crowd  of  fashion  and 
beauty,  she  had  an  inward  satisfaction  at  the  thought 
that  it  was  her  exertions  which  had  brought  about 
this  happy  issue.  If  she  felt  a  little  pride  at  her  suc 
cess,  I  think  she  may  be  forgiven,  when  we  call  to 
mind  that  her  only  object  in  the  whole  matter  had 
been  the  good  of  others. 

When  quietly  seated  in  their  parlor  at  the  St. 
Charles,  Marcia  sank  into  one  of  those  reveries,  which 
were  for  her  another  state  of  existence,  in  which  she 
forgot  the  presence  of  her  friends.  Mr.  Woodville, 
anxious  to  arouse  her,  said, — 

"  Come,  my  daughter,  let  me  know  your  thoughts. 
If  they  are  pleasant,  I  will  share  them;  if  the  con 
trary,  I  will  seek  to  dispel  them." 

"I  was  only  trying,  dear  father,  to  look  through 
the  vail  that  separates  us  from  the  future,  and  see  if 
happiness  will  be  the  lot  of  those  young  beings  I  saw 
married  to-night.  Sometimes  I  reproach  myself  for  hav 
ing  urged  Octave  on  to  the  decisive  step,  knowing  as 
I  did  that  he  loved  me.  Do  you  blame  me,  father?' 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER.        .  221 

"  Surely  not,  my  child.  Had  I  seen  aught  amiss 
in  the  course  you  pursued,  I  would  have  warned  you 
before  it  was  too  late." 

"  So  I  thought,  and  I  have  rested  in  the  hope  that 
Octave  would  soon  transfer  to  Mary,  the  love  he 
lavished  hopelessly  on  me." 

"That  he  will  certainly  do,  and  in  the  meantime 
give  yourself  no  uneasiness  whatever.  In  a  few  weeks 
he  will  be  madly  in  love  with  Mary,  and  will  wonder 
how  he  could  ever  have  been  indifferent  to  her  beauty. 
Depend  upon  it,  these  young  men  have  seldom  any 
stability  of  character.  They  do  not  known  their  own 
minds  two  hours  together.  At  one  moment  they  kneel 
at  your  feet,  and  swear  eternal  fidelity  to  you,  and  at 
the  end  of  a  week  or  a  month,  they  are  a  thousand 
miles  away,  repeating  the  same  words,  with  the  same 
looks  of  tenderness  and  devotion,  to  some  other  fair 
beauty,  they  had  never  before  seen  or  heard  of." 

"And  is  it  thus  with  all  your  sex?" 

"  On  the  contrary,  there  are  many  true-hearted 
men  who  never  forget  their  first  love,  and  whose  hearts 
know  but  one  passion,  that  which  comes  to  them  in 
youth,  a  vision  of  beauty  and  innocence,  which  be 
comes  the  guiding  star  of  existence,  the  sharer  of  all 
their  joys  and  sorrows,  the  fond  and  faithful  wife,  ten 
der,  earnest  and  true,  kind  and  affectionate  in  the 
bright  noon-day  of  prosperity,  and  unchanged  amid 
the  storms  of  adversity.  Together  they  journey  on, 
and  progressing  beyond  the  days  and  years  of  youth 


222  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

and  middle  age,  grow  old  and  feeble,  with  hair  whi 
tened  by  the  snows  of  many  winters,  yet,  turn  they 
ever  to  each  other  with  all  the  fond  affection  of  early 
youth,  consulting  each  others  wishes,  and  loving  deep 
ly,  to  the  last.  Ah,  this  is  love,  indeed ! 

Happy  season  of  youth :  bright  dreams  of  boyhood, 
rain-bow  tintings  of  hope,  sound  visionless  sleep,  care 
less  heart,  elasticity  of  limb,  gay,  wild,  reckless  spirit 
of  joy,  I  ask,  where  are  ye  now?  and  echo  answers, 
where  ? 

Oh !  youth,  how  in  my  wintery  age,  I  recall  thee ! 
How  my  heart  goes  back  to  those  blissful  hours  of 
youth  and  love,  when  all  the  future  was  bright,  and 
with  what  fond  remembrance  do  I  dwell  upon  them ; 
and  yet  I  awake  to  find  myself  a  desolate  old  man, 
wandering  upon  the  shores  of  time,  with  the  waves  of 
eternity  dashing  at  my  feet,  and  all  their  gay  pictur 
ing  dissipated  forever  !  Is  it  for  this  we  live  ?  Only 
to  see  our  brightest  hopes  withered,  our  dearest  ties 
broken,  and  the  heart  seared  and  blighted,  craving 
the  only  rest  it  has  hope  left  for :  the  cold,  silent  sleep 
of  the  dead !" 

"  And  is  there  not,  dear  father,  another  land  where 
you  shall  drink  of  the  fountain  of  Eternal  youth  ?  Do 
you  weary  of  waiting  for  the  hour  when  you  shall 
quench  your  thirst  in  that  fountain,  and  rise  a  beauti 
ful,  glorified  spirit,  with  the  impress  of  endless .  youth 
upon  your  brow?" 

"  There  is  another  land,  my  daughter,  and  there  is, 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER.  223 

too,  a  fountain  of  eternal  youth  ;  but  when  I  see  you, 
with  your  holy  devotion,  your  spotless  purity,  and 
your  many  sufferings,  I  feel  that  you  are,  indeed,  cho 
sen  for  that  world  of  glory,  and  I  tremble  lest  I,  an 
old  sinner,  who  has  often  hardened  his  heart  to  the 
warning  voice,  and  committed  so  many  sins  against 
God,  will  never  reach  that  Heaven  which  will  be  your 
home,  my  spotless  child." 

"  Say  not  so,  dear  father,  for  my  heart,  like  your 
own,  is  wicked  and  prone  to  evil,  and,  alas,  how  often 
have  I  strayed  from  the  path  of  duty.  How  often 
wandered  from  the  God  I  love.  But  a  hand  of  mercy 
has  been  extended  to  me,  and  I  have  been  led  back 
by  the  tenderest  affection.  Never,  never,  have  I  been 
forsaken.  In  the  darkest  hours  of  my  life,  when 

"  Hope  came  back  with  worn  and  wounded  wing 
To  die  upon  the  heart  it  could  not  cheer," 

and  all  around  me  was  sorrow  and  dismay,  and  my 
heart  failed  me  for  fear,  suddenly  God  stretched 
forth  His  hand  and  upheld  me  with  a  father's  love. 
Oh,  what  do  I  not  owe  him !  All  the  fond  devotion 
of  my  soul,  all  its  tenderest  affection ;  aye,  a  thousand 
lives,  if  I  had  them,  and  even  then  I  should  still  be 
a  debtor  to  his  boundless  goodness.  Do  not  then  draw 
comparisons,  and  believe  me  more  worthy  of  mercy 
than  yourself.  God  judges  not  as  man  judges,  and  to 
him  the  secrets  of  all  hearts  are  known.  Confide  in 
his  grace  and  love,  and  do  not  believe  these  insuffi- 


224  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

cient  to  open  the  gates  of  heaven  to  you.  And  then, 
to  tell  me  that  you  are  desolate !  Dear  father,  is 
Marcia  nothing  to  you,  that  you  talk  thus  ?" 

She  twined  her  arm  about  his  neck,  rested  her 
pale  face  on  his  shoulder,  and  looked  up.  As  she  did 
so,  with  all  a  daughter's  winning  sweetness  of  manner, 
Mr.  Woodville  felt  that  he  had  not  been  sufficiently 
thankful  to  the  God  who  had  given  him  this  blessing, 
even  though  he  was  to  keep  it  but  a  short  time ;  and 
as  he  drew  her  close  to  his  manly  heart,  he  offered  up 
a  prayer  of  gratitude  that  it  had  been  his  lot  to  meet 
with  the  Wanderer';  to  cover  her  pathway  with  flowers, 
and  oft-times  bring  joy  to  the  lonely  heart. 

Oh,  ever  in  your  wanderings  along  the  way-side  of 
life,  if  you  meet  with  the  sick,  the  desolate  and  forsa 
ken,  close  not  your  heart  to  the  tender  emotions  of 
pity,  but  share  with  the  stranger,  the  blessings  God 
has  given  to  you;  and  then  the  Way-marks  in  the 
lines  of  the  heart-broken,  may  be  bright  spots,  dear 
to  memory,  and  often  the  Wanderer's  heart  will  turn 
to  them  with  gratitude  and  prayers. 

Octave  and  his  happy  bride  came  to  the  St.  Charles 
hotel,  and  there  spent  the  first  few  weeks  of  their 
married  life.  It  was  astonishing  to  see  how  naturally 
Octave  transferred  his  affections  to  his  bride.  Indeed, 
no  one  could  have  helped  loving  her,  she  was  so  art 
less,  so  confiding,  that  she  won  her  way  at  once  to  the 
heart.  Little  Flora  flitted  about,  perfectly  delighted 
with  her  new  aunt,  and  the  whole  party  seemed  as 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER.  225 

happy  as  they  could  well  be.  The  weather  was  beau 
tiful,  and  many  little  riding  parties  were  made  up,  in 
which  Marcia  joined,  and  her  friends  almost  began  to 
hope  that  she  would  eventually  recover. 

One  day,  the  waiter  brought  in  a  letter  and  handed 
it  to  Octave.  It  was  from  Mrs.  Woodville,  and  ran 
thus. 

PINE  GROVE,  Georgia,  February,  18 — . 
My  dear  Son : 

I  received  your  letter  of  the  20th  of  January, 
and  I  must  say  the  contents  of  it  filled  me  with 
surprise.  Do  not  understand  me,  that  I  find  fault 
with  your  sending  for  Mrs.  Walton.  On  the  contrary, 
I  heartily  approve  of  the  plan,  but  what  amazes  me  is 
that  Marcia  has  at  last  given  her  consent  to  marry 
you.  What  could  have  induced  her  to  change  her 
sentiments  at  this  time,  is  to  me  an  enigma  I  cannot 
solve.  Possibly  you  can  do  so,  when  we  meet.  I  do 
not  wish  you  to  think  that  I  disapprove  of  your  choice. 
Indeed,  with  all  a  mother's  partiality  on  your  side,  I 
do  not  think  you  worthy  of  Marcia.  She  is  so  pure- 
hearted  and  sincere,  so  affectionate  and  winning,  that 
I  am  ready  to  take  her  to  my  heart,  as  fondly  as  if 
she  were  my  own  child;  but,  my  son,  have  you  con 
sidered  all  the  consequences  of  this  step?  How  do 
you  know  but  marriage  may  hasten  the  death  of  the 
poor  girl  ?  and,  at  the  best,  you  must  look  forward  to 
being  a  widower.  Do  you  not  think  it  would  be  bet- 

20 


226  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

ter  never  to  disturb  the  pure  current  of  a  life  so  holy  ? 
Would  not  the  blow  come  less  heavily  if  you  lost  her 
before  she  became  your  wife  ?  Think  of  all  this,  my 
son,  and  do  not,  for  any  selfish  consideration,  take 
one  hour  from  the  life  of  the  sweet  girl,  who  we  all 
love  so  tenderly.  "Write  me  soon,  and  let  me  know 
your  determination.  In  the  meantime  John  shall  be 
in  readiness,  and  will  go  the  moment  you  desire  him. 

Mr.  Percy  has  grown  to  be  the  strangest,  moodiest 
man  you  ever  saw.  He  very  often  passes  a  whole 
day  without  eating,  and  if  I  inquire  if  he  is  sick,  he 
answers  so  mournfully  and  hopelessly,  that  I  cannot 
but  pity  him.  I  fear  he  has  some  secret  sorrow  prey 
ing  on  his  mind.  The  other  evening  he  was  sitting 
with  his  head  leaning  on  his  hand,  apparently  in  deep 
thought.  Suddenly  he  asked  me  when  you  would 
return?  I  told  him  about  the  first  of  March.  "I 
fear,"  said  he,  "it  will  be  a  strange  bridal  party.  I 
should  not  wonder  if  your  son  was  a  widower  ere 
then."  The  words,  in  themselves,  were  simple  enough, 
but  his  lips  were  white  and  quivering,  and  his  face 
expressed  intense  suffering.  I  asked  him  if  he  was 
ill?  "Ill  in  mind,  madam,  but  not  in  body,"  and 
taking  up  his  candle  he  retired  to  his  room,  but  not  to 
rest,  for  I  heard  him  walking  up  and  down  his  cham 
ber  till  long  after  midnight.  Now,  what  can  be  the 
reason  of  all  this  ?  My  son,  can  you  explain  it  ?  It 
seems  to  me  there  is  a  mystery  about  it,  which,  of 
course,  I  should  not  desire  to  fathom  for  any  purpose 


LIFE    OF    A    WANDEREE.  227 

but  to  assist  him  with  my  advice  and  warmest  sympa 
thies,  for  he  is  certainly  a  most  excellent  young  man. 
Write  me  what  you  think,  and  above  all  hasten  home 
as  soon  as  you  can.  You  have  so  spoiled  your  mother 
by  staying  with  her  so  much,  that  home  is  no  longer 
home  without  you. 

The  children  join  me  in  love  to  Marcia,  brother 
Woodville  and  Flora.  Take  good  care  of  the  invalid, 
and  above  all  do  not  urge  anything  upon  her  that 
she  disapproves  of.  I  have  every  confidence  in  her 
purity  of  thought,  and  clear  unbiassed  judgment. 

Good  bye  till  we  meet,  and  believe  me,  always,  your 
affectionate  mother, 

S.  L.  WOODVILLE. 

To  account  for  this  singular  letter  one  has  only  to 
call  to  mind  the  postcript  where  Octave  had  stated  he 
was  going  to  be  married,  and  could  not  leave  Marcia 
long  enough  to  go  after  Mrs.  Walton.  He  had  not 
even  mentioned  Mary's  name  in  the  letter,  and  hence 
arose  the  mistake,  which  was  a  natural  one  on  the 
part  of  Mrs.  Woodville. 

Octave  went  at  once  to  write  an  explanation  to  his 
mother,  telling  her  that  he  was  already  married. 
Weeks  glided  by,  and  our  party  still  lingered  in  Or 
leans,  seeming  to  think  that  Marcia  was  better  pleased 
there,  than  she  would  be  to  return  to  Georgia.  They 
little  knew  her  heart,  poor  girl.  She  went  no  more 
to  the  opera,  or  the  soirees,  but  she  rode  out  every 


228  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

day  a  short  distance.  She  never  repined  at  her  lot, 
but  treated  every  body  with  the  kindness  and  gentle 
ness  that  seemed  a  part  of  her  nature.  She  was 
keenly  alive  to  the  sufferings  of  others,  and  could 
never  see  a  case  of  distress  without  making  efforts  to 
relieve  it. 

One  day,  as  she  rode  along  enjoying  the  fine  balmy 
air  on  the  New  Shell  road,  she  saw  a  poor  woman  sit 
ting  at  the  road  side,  weeping  bitterly.  She  held  in 
her  arms  an  infant,  and  a  small  child  sat  beside  her. 
They  were  clothed  in  rags,  and  their  entire  appear 
ance  betokened  the  most  extreme  misery.  Marcia 
stopped  the  coachman,  got  out,  and  went  to  the  poor 
woman.  She  listened  to  her  sad  story,  which  was  the 
old  one  of  the  poor  Irish  emigrant.  She  had  left  her 
home  to  seek  her  fortune  in  the  western  world.  Her 
husband  had  died  on  the  passage  out,  and  here  she 
was,  a  widow,  with  her  two  helpless  infants ;  a  stranger, 
without  one  friend  to  aid  her.  Marcia,  having  heard 
her  through,  went,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  to  Mr.  Wood- 
ville,  who  never  refused  his  purse  on  such  occasions. 
Having  given  the  poor  woman  a  considerable  sum,  she 
returned  and  took  her  seat  in  the  carriage,  and  they 
continued  their  drive.  Mr.  Woodville  said — 

"I  never  like  to  refuse  these  people,  and  yet  many 
of  them  are  terrible  impostors.  New  York,  particu 
larly,  swarms  with  them.  I  remember  one  cold  bit 
ter  night  in  January,  I  started  with  several  friends 
from  the  Astor  House  to  go  to  the  Broadway  Theatre. 


LIFE   OF   A  WANDERER.  229 

We  crossed  Broadway,  and  as  we  were  proceeding 
along  by  the  Park,  my  attention  was  attracted  by  a 
miserably  clothed  creature,  who  walked  in  front  of  us, 
hugging  to  her  breast  a  tiny  baby,  not  more  than  a 
month  old."  "Poor  creature,"  I  exclaimed,  "what 
a  night  to  be  abroad  with  an  infant !" 

"You  are  not  up  to  their  tricks,"  said  one  of  my 
friends,  "  or  you  would  not  be  so  lavish  of  your 
pity." 

"I  think,"  said  I,  "her  misery  is  obvious  enough, 
and  I  am  going  to  relieve  it."  Stepping  up  to  her, 
I  asked  if  she  stood  in  need  of  any  assistance.  She 
told  me  a  most  pitiful  tale ;  said  her  husband  had 
beaten  her  and  put  her  out  into  the  street,  with  her 
young  infant ;  that  she  had  no  money,  and  knew  not 
where  to  go.  At  this  moment  my  friends  declaring 
that  their  patience  was  exhausted,  told  me  they  would 
go  on  to  the  Theatre  and  I  might  follow  when  I  was 
ready.  I  called  a  carriage,  helped  the  woman  into  it, 
and  told  the  coachman  to  drive  to  a  boarding  house 
on  Greenwich  street,  which  I  knew  to  be  perfectly 
respectable,  though  rather  plain.  When  we  reached 
it  I  Avent  in,  and  took  a  nice  room  for  the  poor  crea 
ture,  and  paid  two  weeks  board  in  advance.  I  gave 
her  money  to  buy  the  child  some  clothes,  for  there 
was  not  enough  upon  it  to  keep  it  from  freezing.  As 
I  turned  to  leave  her  she  burst  into  tears,  declaring 
that  she  would  never  forget  my  kindness.  I  told  her 
not  to  speak  of  it — that  I  was  only  too  happy  to  be 
20* 


230  WAY-MARKS   IN    THE 

able  to  afford  her  any  relief.  I  promised  to  call  upon 
her  in  a  few  days  and  see  how  she  was  getting  along. 
I  left  her  and  joined  my  friends  in  the  theatre.  They 
laughed  heartily  when  I  told  them  what  I  had  done, 
and  declared  me  to  be  as  green  as  my  native  groves 
in  Georgia.  I  bore  their  jests  for  awhile  with  per 
fect  good  humor,  but  at  length  declared  against  it, 
and  the  subject  was  dropped. 

Business  matters  engrossed  my  attention  for  nearly 
a  week,  and  although  I  often  thought  of  the  poor  wo 
man  with  the  deepest  sympathy,  yet  it  was  eight  days 
before  I  called  upon  her.  I  asked  the  landlady  how 
Mrs.  Williams  was,  and  if  I  could  see  her  ? 

"  Why,  la,"  said  she,  "  the  creature  said  you  wanted 
her  to  go  to  another  place,  and  she  left  here  the  next 
morning,  after  I  had  given  her  back  the  money  you 
paid  me,  only  keeping  enough  to  defray  the  expenses 
of  the  night's  lodging." 

"Is  it  possible,"  said  I,  " she  could  have  been  an 
impostor?" 

"Indeed  she  must  have  been,  sir." 

I  turned  away,  disgusted  with  human  nature,  and 
retraced  my  steps  to  Broadway.  As  I  walked  leisurely 
down,  I  met,  on  the  corner  of  Franklin  street,  an 
old  friend,  who  had  long  been  a  resident  of  New  York. 
He  linked  his  arm  in  mine,  and  we  continued  our 
promenade  together. 

"Surely,"  said  I,  "that  is  her?" 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER.  231 

"Who?"  said  my  friend.  "Is  it  possible,  Wood- 
ville,  you  are  in  pursuit  of  the  fair  sex?" 

"  Not  exactly,  but  you  see  that  woman,  there.  Ah, 
she  sees  me  and  colors.  She  is  just  turning  down 
Chambers  street." 

"  Has  she  been  trumping  up  a  story  to  move  your 
sympathy?" 

"  I  met  her,  the  other  night,  with  a  young  baby  in 
her  arms.  She  was  wandering  about  the  streets,  and 
told  me  she  had  no  home  to  go  to.  I  took  her  to  a 
house  where  I  obtained  boarding  for  her,  and  paid  for 
it,  in  advance.  The  next  morning,  she  got  the  money 
back  from  the  landlady  and  decamped. 

That  is  what  you  might  have  expected.  She  bor 
rows  the  baby  to  move  people's  pity,  begs  all  she 
can,  and  then,  with  a  worthless  husband,  repairs  to  a 
tavern,  gets  intoxicated,  and  after  exhausting  all  her 
means,  starts  forth  again  with  her  borrowed  baby." 

"Ah,"  said  I,  "I  see;  I  see." 

The  story  just  told  is  strictly  true,  but  do  not  let  it 
close  your  heart  to  pity.  All  are  not  impostors,  and 
from  the  plenty  God  has  blessed  you  with,  always 
strive  to  help  and  succor  the  poor  and  distressed. 


232  WAY-MARKS    IN   THE 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

Mobile  !  .Sweet  city  of  the  Sunny  South  !  Among 
thy  kindly  people,  the  Wanderer  found  a  warm  wel 
come,  and  many  friends.  Few  persons  at  a  distance, 
would  be  likely  to  form  a  correct  idea  of  the  charms 
of  this  place.  The  society  is  excellent,  and  the  people 
are  enlightened  and  refined. 

One  lovely  evening,  our  little  party  started  out  for 
a  walk,  and  proceeded  up  Government  street,  which 
is  the  Broadway  of  the  city.  The  street  is  very 
broad,  and  on  either  side  of  it  are  built  the  houses  of 
the  wealthiest  inhabitants.  Every  house  has  a  garden 
in  front  a.nd  at  the  sides,  where,  through  the  winter 
months,  may  be  found  flowers  of  every  hue,  blooming 
in  the  open  air.  Long  rows  of  trees  make  the  street 
a  pleasant  promenade  at  noonday,  and  in  the  evening, 
as  our  party  walked  beneath  them,  the  silvery  light 
of  the  moon  played  amid  the  branches,  and  threw 
fantastic  shadows  on  all  the  surrounding  objects.  Let 
us  listen,  and  hear  what  our  friends'  opinions  are  of 
Mobile.  Marcia  said, — 

"  What  beautiful  moonlight.  Surely  there  is  a 
softened  brilliance  in  this  light,  never  seen  in  our 
northern  climate." 


LIFE    OF   A   WANDERER.  233 

"It  is  not  equal  to  Georgia  moonlight,"  said  Oc 
tave. 

"  Ah,  you  are  prejudiced  in  favor  of  your  native 
State,"  said  Mary. 

"  With  what  fanciful  figures  those  columns  seem  to 
be  covered,  and  yet  it  is  only  the  leaves  of  the  trees 
reflected  there,"  continued  Marcia. 

"  You  are  quite  romantic  about  moonlight,  my 
child,"  remarked  Mr.  Woodville. 

"  Do  you  think,  dear  father,  love  for  the  moon  and 
the  beautiful  stars,  is  romance?" 

"I  do  not  know  that  it  ought  to  be  considered  so, 
and  yet  one  is  apt  to  condemn  it,  and  connect  it  with 
the  young  and  foolish  portion  of  our  life,  when  we 
view  all  nature  though  a  false  medium." 

"It  is  not  romance  that  makes  me  love  them, 
father.  It  is  because  they  are  the  work  of  God.  He 
placed  them  high  in  heaven.  He  studded  the  azure 
vault,  with  diamond-like  constellations,  and  I  never 
look  up  at  them,  that  I  am  not  lost  in  wonder  at  the 
mighty  power  that  formed  the  heavens  and  the  earth." 

"  Did  you  ever  choose  a  star,  fair  cousin,  and  call 
it  your  kindred  spirit,  and  watch  eagerly  for  it  every 
night,  as  you  would  for  the  coming  of  an  old  familiar 
friend?" 

"Yes,  Octave,  I  have  done  so  from  early  childhood. 
Doubtless  you  will  think  it  childish,  but  sometimes 
when  clouds  have  obscured  it  for  several  days,  and 
then,  at  last,  a  clear  evening  would  come,  and  it 


234  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

would  shine  in  my  casement.  I  have  wept  tears  of  wel 
come  at  its  appearance,  and  thrown  kisses  from  the 
tips  of  my  fingers  to  the  beautiful  star  of  my  hopes." 

"Marcia,  dear,  it  will  not  be  prudent  to  walk 
further  in  the  night  air.  Shall  we  return?" 

"  Certainly,  father,  but  there  is  Flora,  nearly  half  a 
block  ahead.  You  will  have  to  call  her  back.  There 
was  a  time  when  she  could  not  have  walked  faster 
than  I." 

Our  party  returned  to  the  house,  and  talked  about 
making  arrangements  to  leave  for  home  the  next  day, 
but  the  arrival  of  a  note  put  a  stop  to  this  proceeding, 
at  least  till  the  day  after.  It  was  an  invitation,  to 
the  whole  party,  to  visit  a  lady  who  lived  a  few  miles 
out  of  Mobile  on  one  of  the  most  beautiful  plantations 
in  the  State  of  Alabama. 

At  an  early  hour  they  set  out  and  reached,  just  in 
time  for  dinner,  the  home  of  Mrs.  Vandeventer.  An 
elegant  repast  was  prepared,  and  after  dinner  the  visi 
tors  set  out  to  walk  through  the  lovely  grounds  be 
longing  to  the  establishment.  Visiting  groves  of  orange 
trees,  immense  graperies  and  green-houses,  filled  with 
choice  flowers,  occupied  the  afternoon.  Marcia  was  a 
great  admirer  of  flowers,  and  she  took  a  seat  beneath 
the  spreading  branches  of  an  orange  tree,  now  forced  by 
artificial  means  into  full  bloom.  There  was  something 
in  the  delicious  fragrance  of  these  blossoms  that  stole 
over  her  senses  and  filled  her  with  a  sort  of  intoxica 
ting  happiness.  I  think  fine  perfumes  have  much  the 


LIFE    OF    A    WANDERER.  235 

same  effect  over  one  that  exquisite  music  produces; 
and  I  have  sometimes  found  persons  to  agree  with 
me. 

Having  at  length  visited  all  the  objects  of  interest, 
our  party  returned  to  the  house,  much  pleased  with 
all  they  had  seen.  It  had  been  determined  that  they 
should  remain  a  day  longer,  and  visit  a  place  called 
"the  Ruins,"  about  five  miles  further  up  the  country. 
Now,  for  a  description  of  our  hostess. 

Mrs.  Vandcventer  was  a  widoAV  lady,  middle  aged, 
and  still  remarkably  handsome.  There  were  traces 
of  sorrow  on  her  face,  which  spoke  plainly  of  the 
storms  of  earlier  life,  but  now,  a  sweet  smile  mellowed 
all  harsher  lines,  and  it  was  evident  that  she  was  no 
longer  unhappy.  Two  charming  daughters  and  one 
son,  made  up  the  family,  and  they  lived  in  an  elegant 
house,  and  were  surrounded  by  all  the  appliances  of 
wealth  and  luxury. 

In  the  society  of  this  interesting  family,  the  even 
ing  passed  rapidly  away,  and  at  length  our  friends 
retired  to  rest.  The  next  morning  they  started  on 
their  expedition  to  the  romantic  Ruins,  and  the  curiosi 
ty  of  our  little  party  was  much  excited  by  the  promise 
of  Mr.  Woodville  to  relate  to  them  a  story  connected 
with  the  possessors  of  the  place  now  gone  to  decay. 

Upon  a  slight  elevation,  and  surrounded  by  a  thick 
growth  of  tall  trees,  were  the  remains  of  what  had 
once  been  a  handsome  residence.  Tottering  walls 
covered  with  moss,  richly  cut  pillars,  which  had  once 


236  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

supported  a  handsome  balcony,  remnants  of  turrets 
fast  crumbling  into  dust,  and  old  sashless  windows, 
told  the  sad  story  of  departed  hopes.  Who  shall  tell 
of  all  the  young,  gay  spirits,  once  living  within  these 
walls?  How  many  bright,  happy  faces,  had  once 
looked  forth  from  these  windows,  upon  the  rich  scenery 
around !  How  many  gladsome  feet  had  passed 
lightly  over  the  once  well-kept  gravel  walks,  now  over 
grown  with  weeds  and  tangled  brush  wood !  And 
now,  where  are  they  ?  where  are  the  merry  voices  that 
once  echoed  far  and  near?  where  are  the  graceful 
forms  that  peopled  this  solitude  ?  Alas,  if  you  will 
listen  to  Mr.  Woodville,  as  our  party  proceed  on  their 
way  to  town,  that  evening,  you  will  hear  the  story 
of  the  once  rich  and  happy  possessors  of  the  Ruins. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

"Alas,  they  have  pleaded,  the  friends  that  are  round  thee; 

Alas,  they  have  warned  thee,  entreated  and  wept; 
They  have  shown  thee  the  sin  in  the  spell  that  hath  bound  thee, 

And  the  serpent  whose  coils  round  thy  spirit  have  crept." 


Marcia,  I  know  you  are  impatient  to  hear  me  re 
peat  the  story  I  promised  you  this  morning.  Shall  I 
begin  now  ? 

"  Oh  yes,  father,  do." 


LIFE   OP   A   WANDERER.  237 

"Well,  I  will  tell  it  you,  but  I  warn  Octave  and 
Flora  not  to  interrupt  me  with  questions. 

When  I  was  a  young  man  I  knew  intimately  John 
Twickham,  the  owner  and  proprietor  of  the  Wood 
lands,  which  was  the  name  of  the  place  you  visited 
to-day.  He  was  handsome,  high-spirited,  and  the 
delight  of  all  his  young  acquaintances.  He  was  rich, 
and  as  both  of  his  parents  were  dead,  he  was  undis 
puted  possessor  of  all  their  wealth.  He  spent  his 
money  freely,  and  his  reckless  habits  soon  drew 
around  him  a  set  of  men  who  played  upon  his  weak 
nesses,  in  order  to  advance  their  own  interests.  He 
loved  wine,  and  soon  acquired  a  taste  for  brandy,  and 
while  under  the  influence  of  the  poisonous  cup,  he 
would  play  largely  and  lose  immense  sums.  Every 
body  said  that  Twickham  was  a  fine  fellow,  but  that 
he  was  going  to  ruin  headlong,  and  you  know  what 
every  body  says  must  be  true.  It  so  happened  in  this 
case,  however,  that  ruin  was  put  off  for  an  indefinite 
period  of  time  by  the  advent  of  a  new  personage  upon 
the  scene.  Emily  Vincent  was  the  only  daughter  of 
a  clergyman  who  lived  a  few  miles  from  the  Wood 
lands.  Her  beautiful  face,  slender  form,  modest 
manners,  and  affectionate  disposition,  made  a  deep 
impression  upon  the  mind  of  the  gay  Twickham.  He 
offered  her  his  hand,  promising,  if  she  accepted  him, 
never  again  to  touch  the  dangerous  chalice,  which  he 
knew,  though  wreathed  in  flowers,  to  be  laden  with 
death.  And  the  young,  innocent  creature  trusting  in 
21 


238  WAY-MARKS    IN   THE 

his  plighted  word,  became  his  wife,  and  bade  a  last 
adieu  to  happiness.  For  a  few  months,  it  is  true,  he 
abstained  from  the  frolicksome  life  he  had  led  as  a 
bachelor,  and  seemed  to  find  in  Emily  all  the 
amusement  his  heart  pined  for,  but  gradually  he  re 
lapsed  into  his  old  habits,  and  long  after  midnight  the 
loud  laugh,  and  the  rude  jest,  echoed  from  the  spa 
cious  dining-room  and  pierced  the  hallowed  precincts 
of  his  wife's  chamber.  She  never  repined,  but  always 
met  him  with  a  smile,  and  in  the  long  years  of  sorrow 
that  she  passed,  no  one  ever  knew  her  to  upbraid  for 
one  moment  the  husband  who  had  so  cruelly  blighted 
her  youth.  A  family  of  sons  and  daughters  grew  up 
around  them,  and  in  these  Emily  might  have  found 
comfort,  but  her  husband,  in  spite  of  her  entreaties 
and  prayers,  would  insist  upon  learning  the  boys  how 
to  drink.  He  declared  they  would  never  be  men  till 
they  had  been  completely  intoxicated,  and  from  child 
hood  up  they  were  placed  at  their  father's  side,  and 
made  to  drink  the  health  of  all  present  in  the  lisping 
accents  of  infancy. 

God  knows  what  the  poor  wife.  Buffered.  He  was 
with  her,  when  through  the  long  hours  of  the  night 
she  wept  and  entreated  him  to  change  her  husband's 
heart,  and  poured  forth  to  him  the  sorrows  of  her 
wounded  breast.  But  there  was  one  trouble  which 
had  as  yet  been  spared  her.  She  had  never  wanted 
for  money,  but  had  been  plentifully  supplied  from  the 
first  day  of  her  marriage.  Now,  however,  her  hus- 


LIFE    OF   A    WANDERER.  239 

band's  lavish  expenditure  had  drained  his  coffers. 
Creditors  would  wait  no  longer,  and  an  execution  was 
served  in  the  house,  and  all  the  furniture  was  sold. 
Previously  the  plantation  had  been  mortgaged,  and 
now  house,  home,  and  every  thing  were  swept  from 
them.  In  a  fit  of  maddened  phrensy  he  set  fire  to 
the  house,  and  nearly  every  part  of  it  was  consumed 
before  the  flames  could  be  extinguished.  .Poor  Twick- 
ham  was  conveyed  to  prison,  and  died,  while  waiting 
his  trial,  of  that  terrible  disease,  mania-potu. 

Emily,  surrounded  by  her  children,  her  father,  long 
since  dead,  took  refuge  in  a  miserable  cabin  which 
had  once  served  for  a  negro  quarter.  Here  on  the 
bare  ground,  the  fair  and  lovely  child  of  ease  and 
luxury  sat  with  her  children  in  utter  desolation. 
Many  blamed  her  and  said,  "a  good  wife  makes 
always  a  good  husband;"  others,  more  charitable, 
pitied  her,  but  more  seemed  inclined  to  leave  her  to 
her  fate. 

A  new  voice  now  came  to  swell  the  chorus  of  suf 
fering  ;  another  mouth  presented  itself  to  be  fed. 
Months  dragged  on  wearily,  and  one  after  another 
the  children,  reared  in  the  lap  of  luxury,  died  of  dis 
ease,  of  want  and  privation.  None  now  remained  but 
the  desolate  Emily,  and  her  three  youngest  children. 

One  day,  a  lady  who  lived  in  Mobile,  was  taking  a 
ride  through  the  country,  and  it  so  happened  that  a 
violent  storm  of  rain,  accompanied  by  thunder  and 
lightning,  drove  her  to  the  poor  cabin  for  shelter. 


240  WAY-MARKS    IN   THE 

She  had  a  heart  to  feel  for  the  sorrows  of  others,  and 
she  was  struck  with  the  evident  polish  and  refinement 
of  manner  of  the  gentle  Emily.  She  longed  to  know 
by  what  circumstances  one  so  lady-like  had  been  re 
duced  to  her  present  abject  condition,  and  yet  she 
could  not  bring  herself  to  ask  any  questions  that 
might  wound  the  delicacy  of  one  who  had  already 
suffered  so  much. 

After  the  storm  had  abated  she  returned  to  town, 
promising  that  she  would  come  again  and  see  her. 
True  to  her  promise,  she  often  visited  our  poor  Emily, 
and  one  day  they  walked  forth  together  to  the  graves 
of  her  lost  children.  And  here  was  a  tie  to  bind  the 
rich  lady  forever  to  her  poor  friend,  for  a  short  dis 
tance  off  were  laid  also  two  of  her  own  dear  children  in 
their  last  quiet  sleep.  Pride  was  thrown  aside,  reserve 
was  forgotten,  and  the  poor  heart-broken  Emily  wept 
upon  the  bosom  of  the  rich  and  elegant  Mrs.  S.,  and 
poured  into  her  listening  ear  the  history  of  her  sor 
rows. 

Emily  Twickham  Ho  longer  suffered  for  bread,  no 
longer  lived  in  the  miserable  cabin  and  wept  in  lone 
liness  at  her  sad  fate.  In  the  elegant  mansion  of  Mrs. 
S.,  she  had  found  a  home,  a  sister,  and  all  the  luxury 
to  which  she  had  been  accustomed  from  her  early 
youth.  The  roses  of  health  bloomed  again  on  her 
cheeks,  and  many  friends  and  admirers  surrounded 
her  with  their  attentions.  One  elderly  gentleman, 
possessed  of  immense  wealth,  formed  an  attachment 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER.  241 

for  the  lovely  widow,  and  asked  her  to  marry  him. 
Emily  went  to  Mrs.  S.,  and  having  obtained  her 
opinion  upon  the  subject,  accepted  the  offer,  and  in  a 
few  months  she  was  a  second  time  a  wife. 

Some  time  after  her  marriage,  her  husband  told  her 
he  had  something  to  impart  to  her,  which  he  had 
previously  kept  secret  for  reasons  of  his  own.  He 
said  that  when  he  was  a  young  man,  he  had  a  perfect 
passion  for  strong  drink,  and  spent  all  his  wages  in 
taverns.  He  declared  that  for  two  years  he  never 
once  went  to  bed  sober. 

One  evening  he  was  returning  home,  as  usual,  in 
toxicated,  when  he  passed  an  open  door  where  a  small 
number  of  friends  had  met  together  to  hold  prayer 
meeting.  He  paused  and  listened.  For  the  first 
time  in  his  life  his  eyes  were  opened  to  his  own  open 
disobedience  of  God's  law.  He  entered  the  room  and 
knelt  down.  He  was  deeply  moved.  At  the  close  of 
the  meeting  he  went  away,  but  returned  again  the 
next  night,  and  the  next,  and  at  length  became 
thoroughly  reformed.  He  joined  the  church,  and 
had  never  touched  liquor  since. 

Here  was  a  case  of  perfect  reform,  and  that  man 
lived  and  died  a  Christian,  and  left  his  widow  in  easy 
circumstances,  with  her  three  children  handsomely 
provided  for. 

"  Now  I  know  the  reason,  father,  that  Mrs.  Vande- 
wenter  would  not  join  our  party  to-day  to  the  ruins." 

"What  was  it,  daughter?" 
21* 


242  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

"  She  thought  it  would  revive  unpleasant  recollec 
tions  ;  scenes  which  she  would  far  rather  forget." 

"What  in  the  world  are  you  aiming  at,  Marcia?" 
asked  Octave. 

"I  can  tell  what  Marcia  thinks,"  interposed  Mary. 
"  She  believes—" 

"That  Mrs.  Vandewenter  and  Emily  are  the  same 
person,"  said  Flora. 

"Are  you  all  witches  or  fairies,"  asked  Mr.  Wood- 
ville,  "that  you  should  so  easily  arrive  at  the  truth?" 

"Oh  no,  uncle,"  said  Flora,  "we  are  only  good 
guessers." 

"Here  we  are  at  home  already.  Well,  that  seemed 
like  a  short  ride.  We  will  take  supper  and  retire 
early,  for  we  shall  leave  to-morrpw  morning  for  home." 

"Dear  uncle,  I  am  so  glad  to  hear  you  say  so.  I 
am  so  anxious  to  see  little  Laurie,  and  Gregory,  and 
Albert,  and  grandma,  and  all  the  folks." 

"And  is  my  sweet  Marcia  glad?"  asked  Mr.  Wood- 
ville. 

"Perhaps  I  should  be  more  so,  were  my  dear 
mother  and  brother  there  awaiting  my  arrival." 

"That  is  but  natural,  my  child,  but  you  must  try 
to  be  happy  with  us,  and  forget  them." 

"Forget  them!     Ah,  I  never  can  do  that." 


LIFE   OF  A  WANDERER.  243 


CHAPTER  XV. 

"  Come  back,  oh  come !     The  past  shall  be 

A  cloud  fore'er  removed  ; 
Come  back,  and  in  my  welcome  see 

How  thou  art  still  beloved." 

Far  away,  over  many  weary  miles  of  distance,  to 
the  great  metropolis  of  the  United  States;  to  the 
fashionable  and  far-famed  Saratoga ;  to  the  great  and 
tremendous  Niagara ;  to  Cincinnati,  St.  Louis,  New 
Orleans,  and  Mobile,  we  have  wandered  side  by  side 
with  the  pale  heroine  of  our  story.  '  We  have  listened 
to  her  artless  conversation,  and  have  possessed  our 
selves  of  her  secret  thoughts  and  imaginings.  We 
have  not  hesitated  to  follow  her  into  her  chamber, 
and  watch  over  her  through  her  weary  sickness.  Tell 
me  if  she  has  now  your  heart?  Tell  me  if  you  would 
not  be  better  pleased  that  a  better  fate  awaited  her  ? 
Have  her  sorrows  awakened  in  your  breast  emotions 
of  pity?  For  her  sake  will  you  deal  mercifully  with 
the  desolate  ones  you  may  chance  to  meet  in  your 
daily  walks?  If  so,  I  have  not  in  vain  repeated  to 
you  the  Way-marks  I  found  marked  down  in  the  life 
of  the  Wanderer. 

Arrived  at  her  journey's  end,  Marcia  found  a  glad 
surprise  Awaiting  her,  afforded  by  the  presence  of  her 


244  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

mother  and  tenderly-loved  brother.  Mrs.  Walton 
subdued  her  emotions  as  she  gazed  at  her  wasted 
child,  but  little  Benny  could  not  control  or  hide  his 
sorrow.  "Dear  sister,"  he  said,  "what  makes  you 
look  so  pale?  They  tell  me  you  are  going  to  die. 
Oh  do  not  die  and  leave  me,  sister,  I  would  miss  you 
so  much." 

"Do  not  weep,  darling,  when  I  tell  you  I  must  die. 
'Tis  true  I  shall  leave  you,  but  only  for  a  little  while. 
You  know  that  heaven  is  a  bright  and  glorious  place. 
Are  you  sorry  that  it  is  my  home?" 

"Ah  no,  I  am  glad  of  that,  but  I  cannot  bear  you 
to  leave  me.  Are  you  not  my  only  sister?  Who  will 
love  me  when  you  are  gone?" 

"Mother  will,  dear  brother,  and  you  must  try  to  be 
a  comfort  to  her  declining  years  when  I  am  taken 
away.  When  you  grow  up  will  you  not  work  hard, 
and  earn  money,  and  give  it  to  her  to  buy  every  thing 
she  wants?" 

"  Oh  yes,  indeed  I  will.  Poor  mother,  she  will  only 
have  me  then  to  love  her.'* 

"  That  is  all,  and  you  must  not  add  to  her  sorrows 
by  mourning  after  me.  Try  to  remember  that  it  is 
God  who  has  done  it,  and  he  does  all  things  for  the 
best." 

"Why  is  it  best  that  you  should  die,  sweet  sister?" 

"Such  things  are  hidden  from  our  eyes,  and  we 
have  no  right  to  question  God.  He  is  beneficent  and 
good,  and  studies  our  eternal  happiness  when  he 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER.  245 

removes  us  from  earth.  At  first  I  thought  it  was 
very  hard  to  leave  my  dear  mother,  and  you,  my  little 
darling.  I  wept  many  bitter  tears  at  my  hard  fate. 
I  wanted  to  work  for,  and  take  care  of  my  dear 
mother,  and  to  send  you  to  school  and  educate  you. 
But  tears  will  not  avail  to  change  my  lot.  I  know 
that  I  must  die,  and  I  pray  God  daily  to  give  me 
strength  to  obey  his  mandates,  and  bow  to  his  will,  let 
it  seem  ever  so  hard." 

Octave  broke  in  on  this  conversation,  by  asking 
Marcia  if  she  would  see  Harry  Percy.  He  was  wait 
ing  without,  he  said,  and  was  anxious  to  see  her. 
Marcia  signified  her  assent,  and  Octave  left  the  room 
and  returned  in  a  few  moments  with  Harry  Percy. 

The  human  eye  never  rested  upon  a  more  perfect 
form  than  that  of  Harry  Percy.  Tall,  er"ect,  and 
dignified,  he  stood  before  our  heroine,  and  inquired 
after  her  health  in  tones  that  thrilled  to  her  heart. 
At  last  he  took  a  seat  beside  her,  and  led  her  on  to 
talk  of  her  travels,  the  curiosities  she  had  seen,  and 
the  various  people  she  had  met.  Mr.  Woodville,  Mrs. 
Woodville,  senior  and  junior,  Octave,  and  the  children, 
all  joined  in  the  conversation,  and  the  evening  passed 
pleasantly  away.  » 

Little  Laurestina  introduced  upon  the  scene  a  new 
character  not  before  brought  into  notice.  It  was  a 
kitten,  which  was  her  constant  companion,  and  which 
amused  all  present  by  its  innocent  gambols.  It 
seemed  particularly  to  fancy  the  toe  of  Marcia's  shoe, 


246  «         WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

and  ran  round  it  in  evident  delight,  biting  at  it,  and 
rolling  over  her  foot.  Laurestina  watched  it  with  an 
air  of  childish  pride,  and  when  she  saw  Marcia  laugh 
ing  at  it,  she  ventured  close  up  to  her,  and  whispered 
in  her  ear, — 

"  It  is  my  cat.  Aint  it  pretty  ?  It  sleeps  with  me 
every  night." 

"  Does  it  ?     Pray  tell  me  what  is  its  name  ?" 

"I  named  it  Marcia,  after  you." 

"I  feel  quite  pleased  that  you  honored  me  so  much. 
Does  it  eat  any  thing?" 

"Oh  yes,  it  eats  milk.  I  give  it  as  much  as  it 
wants  every  time  we  eat  our  meals.  I  feed  it  out  of 
my  little  saucer." 

I  shall  have  to  make  it  a  present  to  testify  my  plea 
sure  at  having  it  named  after  me.  Come  to  my  room 
to-morrow  morning,  and  I  -will  give  you  a  blue  ribbon 
for  its  neck." 

Laurestina  skipped  away  to  bed,  with  her  cat  in  her 
arms,  telling  it  as  she  went  how  good  and  kind  Marcia 
was,  and  what  a  beautiful  present  she  was  going  to 
malje  it  to-morrow.  Pussy  listened  attentively,  but  I 
am  not  able  to  state  whether  the  emotions  which  kept 
her  silent  were  those  of  gratitude  or  remorse,  for  she 
had,  inadvertently  I  dare  say,  scratched  Marcia's  foot 
when  playing  with  her. 

The  days  passed  pleasantly  away,  and  but  one  sor 
row  now  lingered  at  the  fire  side  of  the  Woodvillcs, 
and  that  was  Marcia's  still  failing  health.  Every 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER.  247 

thing  that  could  tend  to  divert  her  mind  and  amuse 
her,  was  cheerfully  performed;  but  alas,  they  felt  it 
was  hoping  against  hope  to  believe  she  would  ever 
recover.  It  seemed  as  though  Mr.  Woodville,  in 
adopting  her  as  his  daughter,  had  walked  naturally 
into  all  the  affection  and  devotion  of  a  father,  and  he 
never  wearied  of  amusing  her  and  waiting  upon  her. 

One  day  the  family  all  rode  out,  to  pay  some^  visits 
to  neighbors  and  friends  who  had  called  upon  Mary 
to  make  her  the  usual  calls  of  ceremony.  Marcia  was 
no  longer  equal  to  the  fatigue  of  riding,  and  Harry 
Percy  voluntered  his  services  to  remain  with  her  and 
wait  upon  her.  Mrs.  Walton  was  in  her  room  with  a 
sick  headache,  and  little  Benny  accompanied  our 
friends  upon  their  ride. 

For  the  first  time  Marcia  was  left  alone  with  Harry 
Percy,  and  what,  you  may  ask,  has  that  to  do  with 
the  story?  If  you  will  listen  to  their  conversation, 
perhaps  you  will  be  able  to  judge  for  yourself. 

For  a  long  time  Harry  sat  perfectly  silent,  watching 
the  lights  and  shadows  as  they  played  over  the  sweet 
face  of  the  invalid. 

Suddenly  he  sent  Susan  away,  upon  some  slight 
pretext,  and  said — 

"Miss  Walton,  do  you  fear  to  die?" 

"Oh,  no." 

"  Is  there  nothing  on  earth  you  cling  to  ?  Nothing 
that  makes  life  dear,  and  death  dreadful  ?"J 

"It  is  long  since  I  permitted  the  things  of  time  to 
enchain  my  affections.  I  have  fixed  them  above." 


248  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

"  Miss  Walton,  pray  pardon  me,  and  do  not  think 
it  impertinence  that  prompts  me  to  ask  you  a  simple 
question.  Will  you?" 

"  Certainly  not." 

"You  know  I  am  a  plain  man.  That  I  am  thought 
to  be  a  hater  of  womankind,  &c.,  but  you  know  I  am 
sincere  at  least.  Now  tell  me  frankly  if  you  have 
ever  loved?" 

A  burning  blush  suffused  the  pale  pace  of  the  in 
valid  for  a  -moment,  that  then  receded  and  left  it  paler 
than  before.  She  replied  calmly, — 

"I  know  not  why  you  question  me  thus,  neither  do 
I  recognise  any  right  by  which  you  should  seek  to 
fathom  my  secrets." 

"  Oh  I  have  a  right,  Miss  Walton.  A  right  you 
would  acknowledge  if  you  knew  all.  Now  tell  me 
frankly,  did  not  Miss  Staunton,  your  school  teacher, 
ever  mention  to  you  the  existence  of  a  certain  person 
who  watched  you  every  Sunday  in  church,  who  fol 
lowed  you  like  a  shadow,  who  loved  you,  and  yet  dared 
not,  on  account  of  his  poverty,  make  known  his  love 
to  you  ?  Have  you  never  thought  you  should  like  to 
behold  the  person  who  for  four  long  years  has  lived 
but  in  the  hope  of  possessing  you  ?  Has  that  person 
no  right  to  ask  you  if  you  ever  loved?" 

"What  strange  thing  is  this?"  exclaimed  Marcia, 
starting  up.  "Is  it  possible  that  I  behold" — 

"The  lover  who  followed  you  from  New  York  to 
Georgia.  Who,  hearing  that  you  were  ill,  flew  to  be 


LIFE   OP  A   WANDERER.  249 

your  comfort  and  protection,  but  who  fancied  upon 
his  arrival  he  saw  in  you  the  future  bride  of  the  rich 
Octave  Woodville." 

"  Oh,  Harry  Percy,  what  strange  spell  attracted  me 
to  you  at  the  first  ?  Alas,  it  is  all  explained  now.  In 
the  first  dawning  of  your  smile  upon  my  heart,  I  loved 
you.  I  know  not  why  it  is,  but  yet  in  all  my  wander 
ings  your  image  has  been  constantly  before  me.  I 
blushed  to  own  to  myself  that  this  sudden  feeling  had 
taken  possession  of  iny  heart.  I  strove  to  banish  it ; 
and  when  I  heard  the  minister  preach  the  ever  to  be 
remembered  sermon  on  secret  faults,  I  felt  that  the 
earthly  sin  that  existed  in  my  breast,  was  love  for  you, 
and  I  prayed  God  to  give  me  strength  to  banish  it." 

"Do  I  indeed  hear  these  sweet  words  from  your 
lips,  my  own  Marcia?  Nay,  do  not  strive  to  banish 
love.  Who  knows  all  its  mighty  power  ?  You  may  be 
saved.  You  may  live  to  be  the  joy  of  my  heart,  and 
the  past  will  then  seem  to  us  but  the  dim  remem 
brances  of  an  unpleasant  dream.  Look  up,  sweet 
love.  You  are  too  young,  too  beautiful  to  die.  Nay, 
vail  not  those  brilliant  eyes.  Let  me  read  in  them  the 
affection  which  blesses  my  lonely  heart.  What,  weep 
ing  ;  and  now,  at  this  moment  when  I  am  so  happy  ? 
So  happy  in  the  thought  that  Marcia  is  here  beside 
me,  and  that  I  possess  the  warm  devoted  love  of  her 
guileless  spirit." 

"Why  did  you  tell  me  all  this?  Oh,  Harry,  was  it 
kind  to  wish  to  unnerve  me  ?  Do  you  not  know  that 

22 


250  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

it  is  worse  than  vain  to  hope  I  can  recover?  Oh,  do 
not  seek  to  make  another  tie  between  me  and  earth. 
It  was  a  struggle,  ah,  such  a  struggle,  to  give  up  all, 
and  now  I  am  weaker  than  I  was  then  ;  it  breaks  my 
heart  to  see  my  mother's  sorrow,  my  brother's  tears. 
The  love  and  attention  of  my  father  and  all  my 
friends,  are  so  many  things  to  attach  me  to  life ;  and 
now  this  last,  greater  than  all  else  beside,  my  dream 
of  hope,  my  vision  of  happiness,  love  of  my  soul,  I 
must  tear  thee  from  me.  Duty  bi<Js  me  give  my  heart 
to  God.  I  thought  I  had  long  since  done  so,  but  I 
awake  to  find  that  I  have  deceived  myself;  for,  dear, 
dear  Harry,  with  all  the  ardent  devotion  of  woman  I 
have  loved  you,  only  you." 

Forgetful  of  all  save  his  love,  Harry  knelt  beside 
the  sofa,  laid  her  beautiful  head,  with  its  mass  of  au 
burn  curls,  upon  his  shoulder,  and  passed  his  arm 
around  her  delicate  form.  He  gazed  upon  the  sweet, 
pale  face,  and  yielding  to  an  impulse  he  could  not  re 
strain,  pressed  upon  her  cheek  and  brow  the  first 
warm  kisses  of  love. 

Do  not  blame  him:  who  that  has  felt  as  he  did 
would  have  done  otherwise.  He  might  have  said  with 
truth,  in  loving  and  losing  her, 

"  The  world  is  crumbled  at  my  feet ! 

She  was  my  world  ;  filled  up  the  whole  of  being — 
Smiled  in  the  sunshine — walked  the  glorious  earth — 
Sat  in  my  heart — was  the  sweet  life  of  life. 
The  past  was  her's ;  I  dreamt  not  of  a  future 
That  did  not  wear  her  shape  !"  ' 


LIFE    OF   A   WANDERER.  251 

For  an  hour  more  the  lovers  sat,  breathing  those 
sweet  vows  of  tenderness  and  devotion  which,  alas, 
were  so  useless,  and  yet  which  seemed  to  them  the 
perfection  of  human  happiness.  Would  that  I  could 
describe  to  you  how  charmingly  beautiful  they  looked 
as  they  sat  there,  upon  the  entrance  of  the  family 
party.  Harry,  with  his  hair  thrown  back,  the  light 
of  love  beaming  in  his  eyes,  the  tender  smiles  of  de 
voted  affection  on  his  lips;  and  Marcia,  usually  so 
pale  and  wax-like,  but  now  bright,  radiant  and  rosy, 
with  the  happiness  of  acknowledged  love. 

"Why,  my  sweet  girl,  Harry  has  proved  an  excel 
lent  nurse.  We  must  often  call  upon  him,"  said  Mr. 
Woodville. 

"I  shall  be  willing  always  to  obey  the  summons, 
that  is  if  Miss  Walton  will  permit  me." 

Miss  Walton  did  not  appear  to  notice  Harry's  re 
mark,  however.  She  was  playing  with  the  kitten  that 
bore  her  name,  and  still  sported  the  blue  ribbon,  which 
had  been  her  gift. 

The  first  wild  emotions  of  her  heart,  at  finding  her 
self  beloved  by  the  only  man  who  had  awakened  an 
interest  in  her  breast,  precluded  all  thought,  or  calm, 
sober  reason.  But  left  to  herself,  in  the  quiet  of  her 
chamber,  she  reviewed  her  feelings  and  actions  during 
the  past  day,  and  bitterly  accused  herself  of  having 
strayed  away  from  the  path  of  duty.  She  went  to 
her  mother,  and  hiding  her  face  in  her  bosom,  told 


252  WAY-MARKS   IN  TfiE 

her  all  that  had  passed,  and  asked  if  she  did  not  think 
she  had  acted  wickedly. 

"I  cannot  blame  you,  my  daughter,  for  any  thing 
you  have  said  or  done,  for  it  seems  to  me  as  if  God 
permitted  you  this  one  star  of  hope  to  shine  on  your 
lonely  pathway.  No  one  could  he  more  worthy  of  your 
hand  and  heart,  if  you  should  live  to  bestow  them,  and 
I  do  not  see  that  your  aifection  for  him  who  has  so 
fondly  loved  you,  need  interfere  with  your  duty  to 
God." 

"  And  you  will  not  chide  me,  if  day  by  day  he  sits 
beside,  and  reads  to  me,  and  talks  to  me,  and  tells  me 
of  the  bright  future  he  had  hoped  was  ours  ?  Shall  I 
listen  to  the  musical  tones  of  his  voice,  read  in  his 
beautiful  eyes  his  tender  love  for  me,  and  dream  of 
the  happiness  that  might  have  been  mine,  had  not 
death  stood  in  the  way?" 

"You  can  do  all  this,  if  you  will  but  promise  not  to 
repine,  but  to  believe  that  God  knows  what  is  best  for 
you  in  removing  you  from  earth.  Be  happy  in  this 
love,  in  the  hope  that  in  another  and  a  better  world 
the  friendship  began  here  shall  be  perfected." 

"But,  I  fear  I  shall  not  be  submissive.  Ah,  mother, 
my  heart  is  throbbing  wildly  at  the  thought  of  what  a 
happy  life  I  might  have  led.  It  seems  to  me  I  should  at 
least  like  to  try  the  realities  of  the  love  Harry  has 
offered  me.  It  is  this  that  makes  me  fear  I  am  farther 
off  from  heaven  than  ever.  I  will  pray  to  God  to 
direct  me,  for  strange  hopes  of  life  are  within  me,  and 


LIFE   OF  A  WANDERER.  253 

I  am  no  longer  the  calm,  resigned  Christian,  waiting 
for  the  hour  when  I  shall  be  called  home." 

Long  and  fervently  she  prayed,  and  she  rose  from 
her  knees  with  the  traces  of  tears  upon  her  cheeks, 
but  the  calm  peace  of  God  was  on  her  brow,  and  the 
struggle  was  past. 

How  well  she  might  have  said  with  the  exquisite 
poetess — 

"  Had  we  but  met  in  life's  delicious  spring, 
When  young  romance  made  Eden  of  the  world  ; 

When  bird-like  Hope  was  ever  on  the  wing, 
In  thy  dear  breast  how  soon  had  it  been  furled. 

Ah,  had  we  then  but  met !— I  dare  not  listen 

To  the  wild  whispers  of  my  fancy  now  ! 
My  full  heart  beats — my  sad  drooped  lashes  glisten — 

I  hear  the  music  of  thy  boy-hood's  vow." 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

"  Mistake  me  not ;  nor  let  one  shadow  fall 

Upon  thy  heart,  already  worn  with  pain  ; 
Let  me  but  love  thee,  serve  thee ;  this  is  all ; 
Grant  me  but  this,  and  I  am  blessed  again; 
Blessed— for  to  love  thee ;  though  thou  art  not  mine, 
Is  to  my  homeless  he  irt  an  altar  and  a  shrine." 

Do  you  think  that  my   story  is  sad,  and   do  you 
dread  to  approach  that  last  sad  hour  which  shall  close 

22* 


254  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

the  eyes  of  the  Wanderer?  Methinks  it  was  the  most 
beautiful  period  of  her  existence,  and  had  it  not  been 
for  her  terrible  fits  of  shortness  of  breath,  she  might 
have  been  said  to  suffer  but  little.  Ah,  how  she 
pleaded  at  those  moments  of  agony  for  God  to  release 
her  from  the  frail  tenement  subject  to  so  many  ills. 

But  these  dark  hours  were  few,  and  soon  forgotten 
in  the  dear  presence  of  him  who  ever  lingered  near 
her,  and  read  to  her  all  the  choice  gems  of  poetry 
and  prose,  which  many  years  of  study  had  enabled 
him  to  collect.  He  unvailed  to  her  the  riches  and 
beauty  of  a  highly  cultivated  mind,  and  Marcia  felt 
how  worthy  he  was  of  her  affection. 

In  the  still  hour  of  twilight,  just  as  the  stars  came 
forth  and  shone  in  heaven,  Harry  always  sat  beside 
her,  and  holding  her  hand  in  his,  conversed  fondly  of 
his  past  love  and  present  happiness.  Alas,  he  dared 
not  speak  of  the  future. 

"Dear  Harry,  do  you  believe  the  angels  look  down 
upon  us,  and  know  our  thoughts  and  wishes,  and  hear 
our  conversation?" 

"I  know  not  how  that  is,  but  I  should  suppose  it 
very  possible.  Often  in  the  dreams  of  my  father, 
which  have  visited  my  pilloAV  since  his  death,  I  have 
seen  him,  and  conversed  with  him  as  naturally  as  I 
ever  did  during  his  life." 

"And  yet,  does  it  not  seem  to  you  that  the  freed 
spirit,  leaving  behind  its  imperfections  and  sorrows, 
should  soar  away  to  the  presence  of  God,  and  forget 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER.  255 

all  that  could  give  it  pain?  Is  it  likely  to  suppose 
the  dear  ones  we  have  loved,  and  who  are  now  in 
heaven,  are  still  agitated  by  the  emotions  of  human 
ity?" 

"If  heaven  be  a  place  of  perfect  happiness  and 
enjoyment,  I  should  think  it  unlikely  that  sorrow  or 
pain  could  influence  its  angels.  And  yet,  does  it  not 
seem  hard  that  all  the  tender  ties  that  unite  us  here, 
should  be  rudely  snapped  asunder — that  all  the  fond 
devoted  love  of  a  life  time,  should  in  a  moment  be 
forgotten  ?" 

"  Let  us  not  believe  that  love  and  affection  cease, 
dear  Harry.  You  may  if  you  choose  deny  the  exis 
tence  of  sorrow  in  that  land  of  peace,  but  it  is  not 
necessary  to  exclude  all  the  holier  and  happier  emo 
tions  of  life.  God  is  love.  He  is  filled  with  love  to 
all  his  creatures.  He  studies  their  happiness,  and 
doubtless  all  the  bright  spots  in  their  checkered  exis 
tence,  are  spared  to  them  when  they  reach  his  pre 
sence.  Oh,  Harry,  I  hope  it  may  be  so,  for  I  could 
not  bear  to  die  forgetting  all  I  love  on  earth.  No, 
no,  I  shall  hope  to  know,  and  love  them  all  in  heaven, 
far  from  the  sorrows  which  cloud  my  happiness 
here ;  but  if,  dear  Harry,  I  can  leave  that  bright 
world  to  which  I  go,  if  I  know  that  you  are  lonely 
and  sad,  and  mourn  my  absence,  be  assured  my  spirit 
will  fly  on  the  wings  of  love  to  cheer  you  in  your 
loneliness.  I  will  hover  around  you  when  the  storms 
of  sorrow  roll  over  your  soul,  and  speak  words  of 


256  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

peace  and  comfort  in  your  ear.  I  will  tell  you  sweet 
tales  of  that  happy  clime  where  sin  never  enters; 
where  sorrow  is  unknown?" 

"  Nay,  tell  me  no  more,  dear  girl,  or  I  shall  end 
by  wishing  that  you  may  come  back,  and  that  will 
not  be  resignation  to  the  will  of  God.  I  know  that  I 
must  lose  you,  and  my  only  happiness  now,  is  sitting 
in  your  presence,  and  listening  to  the  dear  voice 
which  so  soon  will  be  hushed.  I  dare  not  trust  my 
self  to  dwell  upon  the  future,  for  life  seems  so  lonely 
without  you.  But  now  that  you  have  promised  to 
come  back  to  me,  if  it  be  possible,  who  shall  tell  but 
that  you  may  come  and  smile  upon  me  as  of  old  ? 
The  belief  in  guardian  angels  is  so  pure  and  holy, 
that  I  chide  myself  for  doubting  it." 

"  Harry,  I  have  something  on  my  mind  which  for 
some  time  past  I  have  been  going  to  ask  you.  Will 
you  listen  to  me,  now  ?" 

"  Do  I  not  listen  to  you  always,  sweet  girl?" 

"  I  know  not,  but  I  should  suppose  you  would  often 
weary  of  my  childish  talk.  I  want  to  ask  you  if  you 
will  love  little  Benny,  when  I  am  gone  ?  It  was  the 
dearest  wish  of  my  heart  to  educate  him,  and  shield 
him  from  all  the  hardships  of  the  rude  world ;  and  you 
know  he  is  so  tender  and  delicate." 

"I  will  be  all  to  him  you  can  wish.  Trust  him  to 
me.  You  know  not  how  honored  I  shall  feel  by  the 
confidence  thus  reposed  in  me.  I  will  be  father, 
brother  and  friend  to  him  as  long  as  I  live.  I  will 


LIFE    OF    A   WANDERER.  257 

lavish  upon  him  the  affection  and  tenderness  -which  now 
belong  to  you." 

"  Spoken  like  yourself,  dear  Harry ;  but  suppose 
when  he  is  growing  up  he  seems  to  be  wayward  and 
disobedient,  and  repays  you  with  ingratitude  for  all 
your  love  and  kindness — say,  will  you  turn  against  him 
then,  and  pronounce  him  utterly  worthless,  and  regret 
the  day  you  undertook  his  protection?" 

"Never,  never.  I  will  remember  that  he  is  but 
mortal,  and  knowing  my  own  infirmities  I  shall  be 
better  able  to  palliate  his.  Let  him  be  ever  so  wick 
ed,  I  declare  to  you  I  will  never  turn  against  him,  or 
withdraw  my  affection  and  counsels.  In  him  I  will 
cherish  the  dear  remembrance  of  you,  my  first  and 
only  love.  Do  you  think  I  can  ever  treat  with  harsh 
ness,  one  who  has  your  blood  running  in  his  veins? 
Ah,  no.  He  shall  fill  the  vacant  place  in  my  heart. 
I  must  needs  have  something  to  love  and  protect,  and 
my  heart  warms  to  your  baby  brother.  Poor  boy,  he 
has  never  seen  a  father's  smile  or  heard  his  blessing. 
God  has  given  him  no  brother  to  love  and  protect 
him,  but  I  will  be  father  and  brother,  and  never  will 
I  forget  the  sacred  charge  you,  my  sweet  love,  com 
mitted  to  me." 

"  One  has  only  to  hear  you  say  so  to  believe  it. 
Nobody  that  hears  you  speak,  could  for  a  moment 
doubt  your  word,  for  there  is  the  impress  of  a  spotless 
soul  upon  your  brow,  and  I  can  read  truth  in  every 
lineament  of  your  face.  I  trust  you  will  impart  to 


258  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

Benny  the  same  beautiful  reverence  for  truth  that  in 
fluences  you.  I  think  it  one  of  the  noblest  traits  of 
character  a  human  being  can  possess." 

"It  certainly  is.  Nothing  in  my  estimation  can  be 
more  contemptible  than  a  person  who,  dead  to  all  the 
loveliness  of  spotless  integrity,  thinks  nothing  of  as 
serting  that  which  he  knows  to  be  false.  You  cannot 
respect  a  person  if  you  are  not  able  to  depend  upon 
his  word." 

"Certainly  not,  and  I  think  that  this  one  point 
gained,  all  other  virtues  follow  in  train.  I  remember 
hearing  a  minister  once  discoursing  upon  this  subject, 
and  he  made  use  of  the  following  beautiful  words. 
'What,'  said  he,  'would  you  destroy  the  temple  of 
truth?  Then  take  down  the  stars,  shroud  the  sun, 
let  the  moon  be  hidden  from  our  sight.'  But  see,  it 
grows  quite  dark.  Are  not  the  family  returning  from 
their  walk?" 

"I  think  I  see  the  flutter  of  the  children's  light 
dresses,  up  the  avenue.  I  will  go  out  and  listen,  and 
try  if  I  can  hear  them.  Yes,  they  are  coming,  and 
laughing  merrily,  too." 

"  Oh !  how  I  long  to  go  forth  and  inhale  the  fresh, 
pure  air  of  heaven,  and  feel  strong  and  well  again. 
But  that  can  never  be  again  on  earth;  and  my  spirit 
yearns  to  be  free,  to  soar  far  away  from  this  vale  of 
tears,  and  to  put  on  that  glorious  body  which  shall  be 
exempt  from  all  infirmity." 

"Well,  my  sweet  child,"  said  Mrs.  Walton,  enter- 


LIFE   OP   A   WANDERER.  259 

ing  with  the  whole  family  party  who  had  been  taking 
a  walk,  "have  you  missed  us  much?" 

"  Very  little,  for  you  know,  dear  mother,  that  had 
I  been  left  alone,  my  thoughts  are  not  unpleasant 
companions  at  the  twilight  hour." 

"I  don't  like  to  be  left  alone  for  a  moment,"  said 
Octave. 

"You  are  such  a  coward,  I  suppose  you  are  afraid 
in  the  dark?"  said  Mary. 

"  Certainly,  that  is  it,  and  I  look  to  you  for  pro 
tection." 

"You  depend  then  upon  a  broken  reed." 

"He  is  a  brave  young  man,  at  all  events,"  said 
John  Woodville,  with  a  merry  laugh.  "  He  would  not 
ride  over  to  Carrol's  with  me  the  other  night,  and 
why,  do  you  suppose  ?  He  was  afraid  of  the  runaway 
negroes  hiding  in  the  woods.  I  have  seen  the  time 
he'd  brave  an  army  of  fugitive  slaves,  but  alas !  that 
day  is  past,  and  it  remains  for  me  to  uphold  the  honor 
of  the  Woodvilles." 

"A  pretty  looking  fellow  you  are,  to  be  sure,"  said 
Mr.  Woodville. 

"Don't  make  fun  of  John,"  interposed  Mrs.  Wood 
ville.  "He  thinks  himself  quite  a  man,  I  assure  you." 

"Never  mind  what  they  say,  John,"  said  Mary. 
"Our  new  house  will  be  finished  this  week,  and  a 
certain  little  Kate  will  be  there  on  a  visit,  next  week ; 
and  you  know  we  shall  always  have  room  at  our  house 
for  you." 


260  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

"I  have  no  doubt  Miss  Kate  will  shorten  her  visit 
if  she  hears  I  am  coming." 

"Surely,  that  would  be  nothing  strange,"  remarked 
Octave. 

" Ton  my  word,  you  are  too  hard  upon  John;  I  pro 
test  against  it,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Woodville. 

"What  did  you  say,  Flora?" 

"Laurestina  said  her  cat  had  eyes  just  the  color 
of  mine,  and  I  say  it  is  no  such  thing." 

"I  thought  pussy's  eyes  shaded  on  the  green." 

"So  they  do,  uncle." 

"  Well,  I  don't  think  yours  do.  Laurie,  what  are 
you  trying  to  make  the  kitten  do?" 

"I  am  only  teaching  it  to  give  me  its  paw,  and 
shake  hands  with  me,  like  Willie  Hinchman's  dog." 

"I  think  you  may  spare  yourself  the  trouble,  for  as 
a  general  thing  pussy  adheres  to  the  beaten  track,  and 
scorns  all  innovations,  and  I  do  not  remember  to  have 
heard  shaking  hands  classed  in  the  list  of  her  accom 
plishments.  Marcia,  what  strange  thing  is  little 
Benny  repeating  to  you?" 

"  Only  telling  me  of  a  monstrous  big  bug  he  picked 
off  mother's  frock;  and  about  a  crowd  of  cats  he 
saw  in  the  woods ;  which  crowd,  upon  strict  inquiry, 
turned  out  to  be  merely  two." 

"  That  is  the  way  that  children  begin  to  tell  stories, 
my  son,"  said  Mrs.  Walton.  "I  do  not  know  why  it 
is  that  you  have  such  a  disposition  to  exaggerate. 


LIFE   OF  A   WANDERER.  261 

Would  it  not  have  sounded  equally  -well  had  you  said 
two  cats,  at  first?" 

"I  suppose  it  would,"  answered  Benny. 

"Another  time,  then,  remember  to  tell  nothing  but 
the  truth.  It  is  much  more  noble  in  a  child  to  tell 
a  straight  unvarnished  fact.  Embellish  falsehood  as 
you  will,  still  it  is  falsehood,  and  every  body  shrinks 
away  from  you,  and  whispers  that  your  word  is  not 
to  be  taken.  Seek  rather  to  establish  a  character  for 
truth,  and  when  you  speak  you  will  be  listened  to 
attentively.  You  will  be  respected  wherever  you  are 
known,  and  many  persons  will  seek  to  make  you  their 
friend." 

"Please  scold  me  some,  too,"  said  Laurestina.  "I 
tell  a  great  many  stories,  and  mother  says,  she  be 
lieves  it  is  more  natural  for  me  to  tell  falsehood  than 
truth ;  and  I  really  believe  she  is  right,  for  when  I 
do  wrong,  my  first  thought  is,  what  shall  I  say  to  hide 
it,  and  my  next  is,  mother  told  me  always  to  confess, 
and  I  should  not  be  punished  if  I  spoke  the  whole 
truth  fearlessly  and  boldly.  So  you  see  I  am  quite  as 
wicked  as  poor  little  Benny." 

Benny  stood  with  his  large  blue  eyes  fixed  in  an 
earnest  gaze  upon  his  mother.  He  was  ashamed  to 
have  been  reprimanded  in  the  presence  of  others,  and 
yet  there  was  that  in  the  child's  spirit  that  made  him 
hide  what  he  felt.  His  little  heart  swelled  within  him, 
but  he  repressed  his  tears,  and  no  one  would  have 
23 


262  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

supposed,  who  glanced  casually  at  his  face,  how  deeply 
he  was  mortified. 

But  Marcia  knew  his  feelings.  In  her  own  child 
hood  she  recalled  scenes  like  the  present,  when  pride 
had  restrained  all  the  gentler  emotions  of  her  heart. 
She  well  remembered  how  she  had  been  called 
hardened,  when  in  reality  her  heart  was  bursting 
with  sorrow  and  shame ;  and  she  gently  stole  her  arm 
round  his  waist,  and  drew  his  little  golden  head  down 
to  her  face,  and  whispered  in  his  ear — 

"You  will  never  tell  stories  again,  will  you,  dear 
Benny?  I  know  you  are  sorry  now,  and  wish  you 
had  not  done  so.  When  sister  dies,  and  you  see  her 
laid  in  the  grave,  will  you  not  think  that  she  wept  and 
prayed  for  you  when  she  knew  you  had  told  a  false 
hood  and  displeased  God?" 

Little  Benny  burst  into  tears,  and  he  promised 
never  to  tell  another  story;  and  I  think  from  that 
time  to  the  present  he  has  never  forgotten  his  sister's 
affectionate  reproof. 


LIFE    OF   A   WANDERER.  263 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

"I  would  not  die  in  Spring  time, 

When  all  is  bright  around, 
And  fair  young  flowers  are  peeping, 

From  out  the  silent  ground  ; 
When  life  is  on  the  water, 

And  joy  upon  the  shore; 
For  Winter,  gloomy  Winter, 

Then  reigns  o'er  us  no  more." 

Spring,  lovely,  beautiful  spring,  was  abroad.  The 
trees  were  covered  with  their  young,  bright  livery  of 
green.  The  peach  and  apple  trees  were  thick  with 
blossoms.  The  woods  were  over-grown  with  wild 
flowers  and  herbage,  and  the  birds  caroled  forth  their 
hymns  of  gratitude  and  adoration  to  the  Creator. 
"Well  might  one  believe,  while  wandering  beneath  the 
cloudless  skies  of  Georgia,  inhaling  the  soft  pure  air, 
and  enjoying  the  rich  scenery  around  them,  that  earth 
Avas  indeed  a  Paradise  till  Sin  entered,  and  planted 
within  every  lovely  flower  a  thorn. 

Oh,  why  was  it,  most  Omniscient  and  Omnipotent 
God,  that  thou  didst  permit  the  serpent  to  tempt  our 
mother  Eve  ?  How  beautiful  is  the  home  thou  hast 
given  us.  How  blessed  and  happy  might  we  have 
been,  if  thou  hadst  ordained,  in  thine  Infinite  wisdom, 
that  the  Evil  one  should  have  no  power  over  man. 


264  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

Thou  didst  know  our  weakness.  Oh,  why  was  it 
placed  in  our  power  to  sin  ?  I  never  yet  committed  a 
sin  that  I  did  not  repent  of  the  next  moment;  and  yet 
upon  occasion  I  sinned  again,  and  again  sought  par 
don  for  the  offence. 

My  mother  leans  over  me  as  I  write.  "What," 
she  exclaims,  "is  it  possible  that  the  child  of  so  many 
prayers;  the  child  whose  mind  I  strove  so  hard  to  fill 
with  the  divine  truths  contained  in  the  Bible,  thus  re 
pays  my  love  ? — thus  questions  the  Supreme  Wisdom 
of  God?" 

"  Pardon  me,  mother.  I  do  not  doubt  God's  Wis 
dom  or  his  goodness,  but  I  cannot  understand  why 
Sin  was  permitted  to  come  into  so  beautiful  a  world, 
and  sow  the  seeds  of  all  horrible  crimes,  diseases  and 
death.  Think  how  fair  and  lovely  is  the  face  of  Na 
ture.  Think  what  perfect  happiness  might  have  been 
our  lot.  What  boundless,  illimitable  love  might  have 
united  the  whole  human  family  in  one  unbroken  cir 
cle.  But  I  will  not  question  the  goodness  of  that  God 
you  have  taught  me  to  adore.  In  another  world  I 
shall  know  what  my  finite  mind  is  incapable  of  appre 
ciating  here." 

Let  us  return  to  the  beautiful  Spring,  from  which  I 
wandered ;  the  season  emblematical  of  the  gay  visions 
of  youth,  when  the  future  seems  to  contain  so  much 
of  joy,  and  when  the  heart  trusts  to  the  friendships  of 
life,  and  is  unsuspicious  of  evil.  Was  it  not  hard  for 
our  sweet  heroine,  calmly  to  contemplate  death  amid 


LIFE   OF  A  WANDERER.  265 

the  gentle  breathings  of  the  spring?  The  soft  air 
kissed  her  cheek,  the  sweet  flowers  "smiled  in  the 
sunshine,"  and  clustering  roses  grew  over  her  case 
ment,  and  spread  through  her  chamber  delicious  per 
fume.  The  sweet  warbling  of  birds  filled  her  ears 
with  melody,  and  woke  within  her  heart  wild  yearnings 
for  the  happiness  which  seemed  to  be  the  burden  of 
their  songs. 

Such  were  the  beauties  of  the  day,  but  those  of  the 
night  were  still  more  dear  to  her  lonely  heart.  The 
calm,  quiet  stars,  shining  upon  her  like  the  eyes  of 
angels,  the  deep  blue  of  that  heaven  which  vailed  her 
from  the  mysteries  beyond,  and  the  soft  bright  moon 
that  filled  her  chamber  with  its  holy  radiance,  and 
rested  on  her  brow  like  the  glory  on  that  of  the  Ma 
donna;  these,  all  these  she  loved,  and  she  wept  at  the 
thought  of  closing  her  eyes  upon  them  forever. 

One  evening  she  sat,  or  rather  reclined  upon  her 
couch,  and  gazed  through  the  clustering  vine  leaves, 
at  the  starry  night  without.  That  day  Octave  and 
Mary  had  gone  to  their  new  home,  about  five  miles 
distant,  and  the  perfect  happiness  and  brightness  of 
their  hope  and  expectations,  all  crowned  with  such 
full  success,  made  in  the  mind  of  poor  Marcia  a  sad 
contrast.  Why  was  it  that  she,  who  had  never  wrong 
ed  a  human  creature,  whose  only  hope  in  living  was 
to  be  a  comfort  and  joy  to  others,  must .  be  cut  off 
now,  in  the  early  spring-time  of  life?  Why  could 
she  not  live,  and  bring  happiness  and  comfort  to  the 
23* 


266  WAY-MARKS   IN  THE 

hearts  of  her  mother  and  brother  ?  Why  could  she  not 
be  a  world  of  blessings  to  him  who  loved  her  so  ten 
derly  ;  whose  existence  without  her  seemed  a  blank  ? 
She  clasped  her  hands  upon  her  brow,  and  the  tears 
fell  through  her  pale,  wasted  fingers,  and  dropped 
upon  the  snowy  pillow.  Her  mother  watched  her 
for  a  few  moments  in  silence,  and  then,  gently  bend 
ing  over  her,  she  asked — 

"Why  do  you  weep,  my  sweet  child?  Tell  your 
mother  what  sadness  fills  your  heart?  What  op 
presses  your  breast,  and  wrings  from  you  these  silent 
tears?" 

"  Oh  !  mother,  it  is  so  hard  to  die." 
"  I  know  it  dear  one,  yet  it  is  the  will  of  God." 
"Yes,  mother,  but  do  not  chide  me  for  repining. 
Is  it  not  natural  that  I  should  do  so.  To  die  so 
young,  so  much  in  life  to  make  me  happy ;  so  many 
blessings,  my  dear,  kind  father,  you,  my  sweet,  gentle, 
beautiful  mother  ;  my  darling  brother,  and— and— dear 
—dear  Harry,  who  loves  me  so  tenderly ;  who  I  love  in 
return  with  all  the  wild,  passionate  devotion  of  my 
sex.  Oh,  mother,  mother,  do  not  blame  me,  but  it  is 
harder  to  leave  him,  than  all  beside.  To  bid  him 
farewell ;  to  tear  from  my  heart  the  sweet  memories 
of  his  love ;  to  feel  that  we  must  part ;  we  who  love  so 
tenderly,  so  devotedly,  with  the  first  and  only  affec 
tion  that  our  virgin  hearts  have  ever  known ;  oh, 
mother,  I  cannot  be  calm  and  think  of  it.  Go  forth 
mother,  dear,  and  bring  Harry  here.  Let  me  weep 


LIFE   OF   A  WANDERER.  267 

myself  to  sleep  upon  his  bosom.  Let  me  lay  my  poor, 
weak  head  upon  his  manly  breast,  and  feel  the  fond 
beatings  of  his  noble  heart.  I  am  not  his  wife,  but 
surely  in  my  last  hours  of  waning  life,  it  will  be  no 
sin,  no  shame  to  lie  upon  his  breast,  and  die  within 
the  folds  of  his  caressing  arms." 

"  Surely  not,  my  daughter.  I  will  call  him,  and  I 
doubt  not  he  will  gladly  obey  the  summons." 

"My  own,  sweet  love,  did  you  send  for  me?  I  was 
reading  in  my  own  room,  not  daring  to  intrude  upon 
the  privacy  of  your  chamber.  I  am  here  at  your 
mother's  bidding." 

"Dear  Harry,  how  kind  of  you  to  come.  Sit  down 
beside  me.  Hold  me  in  your  arms.  Let  me  clasp 
my  arms  about  your  neck.  Let  me  weep  myself  to 
rest,  closely  nestled  to  your  heart." 

"  Nay,  do  not  weep,  sweet  love.  Look  up,  and  be 
happy.  See  how  beautifully  the  moon  plays  about 
your  face.  See  how  it  rests  upon  your  mother,  as  she 
sits  there  in  her  snowy  drapery.  Is  it  not  an  earnest 
of  future  happiness?  Will  not  the  present  night  of 
sorrow  be  followed  by  a  glorious  morning?  This  is 
the  beautiful  season  of  spring.  The  time  for  hope 
and  joy.  Nay,  believe  me,  you  will  be  spared  till  the 
lovely  spring  has  passed  away." 
*"Do  not  hope  it,  dear,  dear  Harry.  Do  not  so 
sweetly  whisper  what  can  never  be.  Ah,  no!  the 
flowers  of  this  very  spring  shall  bloom  over  my  grave. 
It  is  sad  to  die  when  all  the  world  is  so  beautiful.  It 


268  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

is  sad  to  leave  you,  my  own,  dear  love.  Teach  me 
how  to  bear  patiently  my  fate.  Teach  me  how  to 
trust  more  faithfully,  more  devotedly  in  God.  Never, 
never  did  I  stand  more  in  need  of  your  counsels  and 
advice.  My  soul  shrinks  with  cowardly  fear,  as  I  feel 
myself  drawing  nearer  to  the  cold  waters  of  the  ocean 
of  Eternity.  Oh,  Harry!  shield  me  with  your  strong 
arm  from  the  scythe  of  the  Reaper,  whose  name  is 
Death." 

"  Calm  yourself,  dear  girl.  Call  in  the  powers  of 
your  own  strong  mind  to  aid  you,  for  alas  !  I  have  no 
power  here.  Trust  in  God.  He  will  sustain  you. 
Oh !  I  know  it  is  dreadful  for  you  to  contemplate  your 
fate;  but,  dearest,  do  not  shrink  from  what  you  can 
not  avoid.  You  must  die.  Fearful  words,  because 
irrevocable;  but  do  not  fear  them.  Sooner  or  later 
we  all  must  die.  What  matters  it  that  you  are  re 
moved  a  short  time  before  us  ?  Life  at  the  best  is  a 
checkered  scene,  where  the  dark  features  of  the  pic 
ture  are  most  prominent.  Look  around  you  at  those 
who  seem  to  you  so  happy  and  contented.  Ah !  be 
lieve  me,  if  you  could  read  their  hearts  you  would  find 
they  all  had  a  crook  in  the  lot,  or  a  skeleton  in  the 
house.  We  will  go  with  you  to  the  entrance  of  the 
valley  of  the  shadow  of  Death.  We  will  comfort  your 
weary  heart  with  all  the  solaces  of  affection;  for 
dearly,  dearly  are  you  loved  by  all,  my  own,  sweet 
Marcia;  but  turn  your  heart  in  its  wretchedness  to 
God.  Only  God  can  aid  you.  Only  God  can  support 


LIFE   OP  A   WANDERER.  269 

you  in  that  trying  hour  which  makes  cowards  of  the 
stoutest  hearts.  Weak  indeed  are  the  friendships  of 
life  at  such  a  moment.  You  have  no  sins  to  bar  your 
entrance  to  heaven;  or,  if  you  have,  it  can  only  be  in 
loving  me  too  much,  and  God  will  forgive  you  that, 
and  bear  you  tenderly  in  his  bosom,  through  the  cold 
waters  of  death." 

"Mother,  dear,  pray  for  your  daughter.  Harry 
says  truly,  I  have  loved  him  too  much.  Oh !  pray  for 
me  that  God  may  have  mercy  on  me,  and  teach  me 
how  to  look  calmly  in  the  face,  the  fierce  struggle 
through  which  my  soul  must  pass." 

The  sad  mother  knelt  beside  her  child,  and  offered 
up  her  fervent  prayers  in  a  broken  and  faltering  voice. 
Little  Benny  awoke,  and  creeping  from  his  bed,  knelt 
by  his  mother  and  joined  his  childish  tears  and  prayers 
to  hers.  Surely  the  aspirations  of  that  widow's  heart 
went  up  as  a  memorial  to  the  God  of  Heaven.  Surely 
the  Father  of  mercies  pitied  the  fatherless  child,  who 
wept  at  sorrows  he  could  not  understand.  And 
surely  he  would  stretch  forth  his  hand  to  the  Wan 
derer,  who  after  a  short  but  troubled  journey  through 
the  pathway  of  life,  was  called  to  give  up  all  her  heart 
held  dear  on  earth,  and  try  the  dark  realities  of 
Eternity. 

The  prayer  was  answered,  and  peace  came  to  the 
Wanderer's  heart.  Light  as  from  Heaven  fell  upon 
her  pale  face,  and  she  lay,  calm,  quiet  "and  resigned 
to  the  will  of  God. 


270  WAY-MARKS    IN   THE 

Who  will  say  there  is  no  mighty  power  in  prayer  ? 
God  has  wisely  ordered  that  we  should  seek  at  a  throne 
of  grace  for  all  the  blessings  that  we  need.  His  ear 
is  ever  open  to  the  sincere  petitions  of  his  children, 
and  if  he  withhold  a  blessing  that  we  crave,  it  is  for 
.  our  own  good.  We,  poor,  weak,  short-sighted  mortals 
that  we  are,  but  too  often  ask  for  that,  which  if 
granted,  would  but  turn  to  gall  and  wormwood  in  our 
possession. 

It  is  the  duty  of  the  Christian  to  ask  what  to  pray 
for.  Lord,  teach  me  how  to  pray.  It  is  very  hard 
for  us  to  bid  farewell  to  those  we  love :  to  close  their 
eyes  in  death.  It  is  hard  for  the  mother  to  part  from 
her  child :  to  lay  it  in  the  cold  ground,  water  the  grave 
with  her  tears,  and  go  back  herself  to  life,  lonely  and 
desolate.  It  is  hard  to  meet  the  contumely  of  the 
world,  while  the  heart  breaks  in  silent  anguish  within. 

It  is  hard  to  find  cruelty,  reproaches  and  insult, 
where  the  heart  has  lavished  its  wealth  of  affection 
and  confiding  love.  It  is  hard  to  trust  in  the  bosom 
of  a  sworn  friend,  who  in  return  betrays  and  deceives 
you;  but  do  not  repine.  Do  not  ask  God  to  change 
it.  Ask  him  to  remove  your  affections  from  earth  and 
center  them  in  Heaven.  To  give  you  a  heart  to  love 
and  fear  him.  To  give  you  submission  to  all  thatjie 
directs. 

Are  you  a  wife,  whose  happiness  is  centered  in  your 
husband  ?  Are  you  a  mother,  whose  hopes  cluster  round 
the  dear  ones  that  encircle  your  fireside?  Are  you  a 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER.  271 

sad,  lonely  one,  that  trusts  in  the  friendship  of  man 
for  support  and  comfort?  Are  you  a  fair,  young  girl, 
betrothed  to  him  you  trust  and  love  ?  Ah !  believe  me, 
if  you  are  either  one  or  all  of  these,  you  will  find  your 
dream  of  happiness  rudely  broken :  you  will  be  taught 
to  look  for  a  husband  that  can  never  forsake  you, 
children  that  are  angels  in  heaven,  and  cannot  die, 
friends  beyond  all  the  weakness  and  frailty  of  hu 
manity,  and  lovers  only  in  that  God  and  Savior  who 
will  never  betray  your  love  and  confidence. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

"  I  am  resigned.     What'er  my  fate  may  be, — 

In  storms  or  sunshine  to  thy  will  I  how  ; 
Anil  be  the  fruit  that  Jiangs  on  life's  green  tree, 

Or  sweet  or  bitter,  it  is  welcome  now. 
All  things  are  equal  to  the  heart  that  bears 
A  faith  uriblenching  through  earth's  thousand  cares." 

Toward  the  close  of  a  lovely  day,  a  carriage  wound 
its  way  along  the  hilly  road  that  led  from  the  town 
of  D.  to  the  plantation  of  Mrs.  Woodville.  Its  occu 
pants  were  two  persons,  a  gentleman  and  lady.  A  fat 
Irish  coachman  sat  on  the  box,  and  lazily  told  his 
horses  to  "  get  up,"  fifty  times  in  an  hour.  Poor 
beasts,  they  looked  as  if  they  had  not  spirit  enough 
left  in  them  to  breathe. 


272  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

"I  am  afraid  we  shall  not  reach  there  before 
night,"  said  the  lady. 

"  It  will  not  matter  much,  for  there  is  a  moon  to 
night,"  answered  the  gentleman. 

"A  moon  to-night,  is  there?  And  pray  what  time 
do  you  suppose  the  moon  rises,  Mr.  Wiseacre?" 

"I  should  think  about  seven  o'clock." 

"Well,  that  shows  how  much  you  know  about  it,  to 
be  sure.  The  moon  will  not  rise  to-night  till  nine 
o'clock,  and  we  shall  surely  be  there  before  then." 

"Lhopeso,  indeed."  - 

"Hope  so ;  and  I  should  like  to  know  what  there  is 
to  prevent  it.  How  far  do  we  have  to  go  yet  ?" 

"  Some  four  miles." 

"  Some  four  miles,"  said  the  lady,  who  seemed  de 
termined  to  echo  all  her  companion  gave  utterance  to, 
and  equally  bent  upon  contradicting  every  assertion 
he  made.  "  Some  four  miles,  indeed.  On  the  con 
trary,  it  is  not  more  than  two  miles.  Now  ask  the 
coachman,  and  see  if  I  am  not  right." 

The  gentleman  very  obediently  did  as  he  was  direc 
ted.  The  coachman  said  the  distance  was  three  miles 
and  a  quarter. 

"There,"  said  the  lady,  "did  I  not  tell  you  so? 
You  always  think  you  know  better  than  me.  Some 
of  these  days  I  hope  you  will  find  out  how  little  you 
know,  and  how  much  better  it  is  always  to  trust  en 
tirely  to  me." 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER.  273 

"  I  thought  you  said  you  believed  the  distance  to  be 
two  miles,"  said  the  persecuted  gentleman. 

"And  I  should  like  to  know  what  business  you  have 
to  think  ?  You  thought,  did  you  ?  Well,  another 
time  I  will  thank  you  not  to  think  any  thing  about  it. 
Pray  leave  the  thinking  to  me." 

"  Yes,  dear,"  meekly  replied  the  poor  man. 

"  I  should  like  to  know  who  it  was  that  first  thought 
of  coming  to  see  Marcia  ?  I  suppose  you  will  be  ta 
king  the  credit  of  that  to  yourself?" 

"  I  believe  I  mentioned  it,  dear." 

"  You  believe  you  mentioned  it,  do  you  ?  Perhaps 
you  did,  but  I  know  very  well  who  thought  of  it  first. 
Had  it  not  been  for  my  untiring  energy,  I  should 
never  have  got  you  off.  Oh,  you  ungrateful  man. 
You  will  never  be  sufficiently  thankful  for  the  wife 
Godias  given  you,  till  you  lose  her." 

"  When  will  that  be,  my  dear?" 

"  When  will  it  be,  aye  ?  Not  for  a  long  time  yet, 
I  can  tell  you,  Mr.  Johnson.  So  if  you  have  been 
building  up  schemes,  and  thinking  who  you  will  have 
for  a  second  wife,  I  can  just  inform  you  they  will 
crumble  into  dust,  for  my  family  are  remarkably  long 
lived.  Do  you  hear  that?" 

Husband,  aside,  "Alas!  alas!" 

"  What  is  that  you  are  grumbling  about,  you  cross- 
grained,  ill-natured,  hard-hearted  old  tyrant,  you?" 

"My  dear,  what  did  you  marry  me  for?  You 
24 


274  WAT-MARKS    IN    THE 

seemed  to  be  aware  of  all  my  faults  before  you  asked 
me  to  have  you.." 

"I  asked  you  to  have  me  ?  Oh,  you  dreadful,  terri 
ble  man.  How  can  you  'shock  the  delicate  sensibility 
of  a  young  wife  in  that  horrible  manner?  I  shall  die, 
I  know  I  shall  die." 

"Pray  do,  dear?" 

"  What  do  you  say  ?" 

"  Nothing  love,  only  you  know  you  told  me  you  were 
growing  old,  and  the  duties  of  your  school  were  so  ar 
duous  that  you  thought  you  could  not  stand  them 
much  longer.  And  then  some  of  the  children  wound 
ed  your  sensibility  by  calling  you  an  old  maid,  and" — 

"What?"  screamed  the  lady  so  loudly  that  the 
coachman  reined  in  his  horses,  and  turned  suddenly 
around  in  amazement,  to  see  what  was  the  matter ;  but 
perceiving  it  was  only  a  matrimonial  quarrel,  hejvent 
on  with  his  "  get  ups,"  as  before. 

"  Pray  now,  dear,  don't  excite  yourself.  You  know 
I  was  only  telling  you  what  you  told  me  yourself.  I 
would  not  wound  your  feelings  for  the  world.  Are 
you  not  my  own,  little  wife?" 

"Oh,  you  .cruel,  black-hearted  monster.  To  add 
insult  to  injury  in  this  manner.  To  pretend  that  you 
have  got  one  spark  of  human  feeling  in  your  heart. 
To  call  me  your  own,  little  wife.  Oh,  dear,  oh,  dear," 
and  the  little  lady  went  off  in  a  fit  of  hysterics ;  but 
seeing  they  had  arrived  at  the  head  of  the  avenue, 
and  hearing  the  slave  tell  the  driver  they  had  only  a 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER.  275 

mile  further  to  go,  she  concluded  to  save  her  fit  for 
the  special  benefit  of  her  husband,  when  they  retired 
that  evening. 

Are  you  anxious  to  be  made  acquainted  with  our 
charming  travelers,  or  have  you  already  recognized 
in  them,  Marcia's  school  teacher  and  her  father's  old 
friend,  Mr.  Johnson  ?  I  know  not  how  it  was,  but  the 
patient,  long-suffering  teacher,  had  thrown  aside  all 
the  patience  which  once  had  characterized  her,  and 
seemed  to  set  herself  to  work  to  make  her  husband 
miserable.  She  had  in  reality  popped  the  question  to 
Mr.  Johnson,  and  he,  not  knowing  very  well  how  to 
refuse,  was  obliged  to  comply  with  her  offer,  and 
never  was  there  a  more  perfect  specimen  of  a  poor 
hen-pecked  husband. 

The  meeting  between  Marcia  and  her  old  friends 
was  ^fecting  indeed ;  and  the  ill-tempered  wife  seemed 
to  lose  in  her  presence  the  austerity  which  had  marked 
her  conversation  in  the  carriage.  Mrs.  Woodville  did 
the  honors  of  her  house,  with  the  hospitality  always  s 
met  with  in  the  South  and  West ;  and  Mr.  Woodviller 
exerted  himself  to  please  the  friends  of  his  child. 

One  after  another,  Mrs.  Johnson  called  up  the  chil 
dren  to  her,  and  inquired  if  they  knew  the  Catechism 
by  heart,  the  ten  commandments,  and  the  Lord's 
prayer.  Having  satisfied  herself  upon  this  point,  she 
made  numerous  inquiries  about  their  studies,  and  rep 
rimanded  them  severely  for  knowing  so  little ;  telling 
them  the  children  at  the  North  knew  more  when  they 


276  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

were  born  than  they  did  now.  In  the  midst  of  this 
conversation  Harry  Percy  entered.  He  had  been 
taking  a  ride,  and  knew  nothing  of  the  arrival  of  the 
strangers.  He  received  Mrs.  Johnson  with  an  eager 
welcome,  which  was  prompted  by  the  affection  he  felt 
for  her,  for  her  first  sympathy  in  his  devotion  to 
Marcia.  Thus  this  hard,  cold  woman,  who  had  per 
mitted  all  the  gentler  emotions  of  her  soul  to  freeze 
who  was  leading  the  best-natured  and  most  innocent 
of  men  a  miserable  life,  who  felt  no  sympathy  with 
the  wretched,  the  poor,  or  the  wicked,  still  had 
one  trait  of  goodness ;  one  green  spot  left  fresh  and 
beautiful,  amid  all  the  parched  and  arid  dryness  of 
her  heart. 

Do  not  chide  her.  Do  not  condemn  her.  Go  and 
take  a  number  of  scholars  of  all  ages,  from  seven  to 
seventeen.  Shut  yourself  up  for  years  with  Aem. 
Go  through  the  routine,  day  after  day,  of  teaching 
them  what  you  know  yourself,  and  let  the  children  be 
as  amiable  as  children  ever  were  known  to  be,  still  you 
jfill  come  out  of  that  prison-house,  for  prison  a  school 
room  is,  say  what  you  will,  a  cross,  ill-natured  person, 
without,  indeed,  you  have  the  temper  of  a  saint.  No 
one  can  know  but  those  who  have  tried  teaching  school, 
the  innumerable  trials  which  beset  the  life  of  a  teacher. 
Next  to  that  of  a  child's  nurse,  it  is  the  most  annoy 
ing  business  any  one  can  earn  their  bread  by. 

The  evening  was  being  very  pleasantly  spent,  and 
Mr.  Johnson  seemed  to  be  enjoying  an  amount  of 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER.  277 

peace  of  a  most  unprecedented  extent,  when  unluckily 
he  began  one  of  those  old  stories,  which  always  were 
the  abomination  of  Mrs.  Johnson,  even  when  she  was 
a  maiden.  He  said — 

"  Seeing  Marcia  lying  here,  looking  so  pale  and 
wasted,  reminds  me  of  the  time  when  I  was  a  young 
man,  and  was  very  ill  of  typhoid  fever.  Marcia's 
father  came  often  to  see  me,  and  really" — 

"I  am  sure,  Mr.  Johnson,  Marcia  don't  want  to 
hear  anything  about  you,  or  the  bilious  fever  or  ty 
phoid,  or  whatever  you  may  choose  to  call  it."  And 
then,  in  a  low  tone,  she  added,  "pray  don't  make  a 
nuisance  of  yourself." 

"  Oh !  don't  prevent  Mr.  Johnson  from  telling  me 
all  about  it,"  said  Marcia.  "Indeed,  I  love  to  hear 
him  talk  of  my  father." 

"  J^ell,  Marcia,  just  as  you  please.  I  only  thought 
it  would  annoy  you,  and  I  know  men  are  so  stupid, 
and  have  so  little  consideration  for  the  gentler  sex." 

"Gentler  sex,"  said  the  poor  husband  in  a  tone  of 
subdued  anguish.  Then  aloud  he  continued — 

"$.nd  really  he  was  a  friend  indeed  to  me.  I  posi 
tively  believe  I  should  have  died  had  it  not  been  for 
dear  Mr.  Walton.  Do  you  not  remember,  Mrs.  Wal 
ton,  the  many  ni/ce  little  things  y_ou  made  to  tempt 
my  appetite?" 

"Very  well,  indeed,  but  I  do  not  think  the  case 
merits  such  warm  elogiums." 

"Oh!  yes,  it  does,  for  you  saved  my  life." 

24* 


278  WAY-MARKS    IN    THE 

"What  a  dreadful  pity,"  said  Mrs.  Johnson,  in  an 
under  tone,  intended  for  no  ears  but  her  devoted  hus 
band's.  Of  course  Mr.  Johnson  smiled,  and  bowed  in 
acknowledgment  of  the  implied  compliment. 

"Was  I  living  then,  mother?"  asked  Marcia,  in  the 
effort  she  made  to  turn  the  conversation  from  the  hap 
less  husband. 

"Yes,  my  child,  you  were  a  baby  of  some  five  or 
six  weeks  old.  The  circumstance  is  very  plainly  im 
pressed  upon  my  mind  on  account  of  a  dreadful  acci 
dent  by  which  you  very  nearly  lost  your  life." 

"Pray  tell  it,  Mrs.  Walton,"  asked  Harry  Percy, 
and  he  was  seconded  in  his  request  by  the  whole  party. 
Mrs.  Walton  began — 

"Your  father  came  home  one  evening  from  the 
store,  and  told  me  he  should  like  to  take  his  friend 
Johnson  some  chicken  soup.  I  went  into  the  kitchen 
and  superintended  the  making  of  it.  As  soon  as  it 
was  done,  I  had  it  put  in  a  little  kettle,  and  your 
father  went  out  with  it.  When  I  left  my  room  to  go 
to  the  kitchen,  you  were  lying  in  the  middle  of  the 
bed,  in  a  deep  sleep.  Your  sister  was  in  the  crib,  at 
the  foot  of  the  bed ;  and  the  nurse  sat  at  a  little  table, 
sewing.  Suddenly  she  imagined  she  saw  on  the  snowy 
curtains  which  hung  at  the  windows,  an  immense  spider. 
She  picked  up  the  lamp,  and  held  it  close  to  the  cur 
tain,  without  thinking  of  the  risk  she  was  running. 
A  puff  of  wind  blew  the  flame  against  the  curtain,  and 
in  an  instant  the  whole  was  in  a  light  blaze.  She 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDEIIEK.  279 

screamed  wildly.  I  ran  up  the  stairs,  reached  the 
room  door,  saw  the  devouring  element  raging  near  my 
sleeping  children,  and,  unable  to  utter  one  word,  I  sank 
down  in  a  fainting  fit.  The  alarm  was  given.  Seve 
ral  persons  rushed  in  from  the  street.  I  was  carried 
insensible  from  the  house  to  a  hotel  opposite.  A  boy 
of  fourteen  pushed  his  way  through  the  flames.  He 
seized  my  children, — Marcia,  what  ails  you?  You 
look  so  pale  and  agitated.  My  God,  she  has  fainted." 

And  true  enough,  with  eyes  half  closed,  pallid  lips, 
and  livid  countenance,  the  poor  wanderer  looked  as  if 
she  had  breathed  her  last  sigh.  Terror  seemed  to 
hold  Harry  Percy  to  the  spot,  but  Mrs.  Walton  and 
Mrs.  Woodville  bathed  the  sweet  girl's  temples,  chafed 
her  hands,  and  applied  a  vinaigrette  to  her  nose. 
Slowly  she  recovered,  opened  her  eyes  wide,  gazed 
attentively  around  her,  and  stretching  forth  her  arms, 
she  said  to  Harry  Percy,  in  a  tone  of  the  sweetest 
melody — 

"Take  me  to  your  heart,  love.  Hold  me  close, 
close.  Do  not  let  them  separate  us.  Oh !  to  think 
that  I — I — was  the  baby  you  told  me  about  the  other 
day.  To  think  it  was  you,  my  own,  dear  Harry,  that 
saved  me  from  being  burnt  to  death,  when  I  was  a 
weak,  helpless  infant.  Truth  is  indeed  stranger  than 
fiction." 


"Are  you  the  saviour  of  my  children?  Say,  was 
it  you  who  rescued  them  from  the  most  horrible  of 
deaths?"  said  Mrs.  Walton.  "  Oh !  why  did  you  hide 


WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

yourself  from  me  ?  I  advertised  for  you.  I  sought 
you  by  every  means  in  my  power.  Why  did  you  not 
allow  me  the  privilege  of  showing  you  my  gratitude  ?" 

"  Indeed,  madam,  I  did  not  think  I  was  doing  any 
thing  to  call  forth  lasting  gratitude.  I  was  merely 
passing  along  the  street,  when  a  servant  rushed  out, 
screaming  fire,  in  a  loud  tone  of  voice.  I  entered  the 
house,  followed  by  several  men,  '  There  are  children 
in  the  bed,'  said  the  distracted  servant  girl.  I  ran 
quickly  up  the  stairs.  A  lady  lay  fainting  at  the  door 
of  the  room.  Two  men  lifted  her,  and  carried  her 
down.  I  passed  into  the  room,  the  smoke  and  flame 
were  so  great  that  I  could  not  see  my  way.  I  felt  it, 
however,  and  found  the  two  children,  one  in  the  bed, 
still  sleeping,  unhurt ;  the  other  attracted  me  by  its 
screams,  from  its  little  crib.  I  held  them  firmly  in 
my  arms,  and  rushed  through  the  hot  scorching  blaze. 
I  was  welcomed,  as  I  appeared  on  the  door  step,  with 
deafening  cheers.  I  was  directed  to  carry  them  over 
to  the  hotel  opposite.  I  did  so,  and  returned  to  my 
home  slightly  scorched  about  my  neck  and  hands,  and 
my  hair,  which  had  been  long,  was  burnt  to  the  edge 
of  my  cap.  I  left  town  the  next  morning  for  my 
home,  which  was  in  the  centre  of  New  York  State, 
and  that  is  why  your  advertisement  never  reached  me." 

"Noble,  excellent  youth,  we  have  now  another  tie 
to  bind  us  together,"  said  Mrs.  Walton. 

"My  own,  dear  Harry,"  said  Marcia,  as  she  twined 
still  more  closely  her  arms  about  his  neck.  All  the 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER.  281 

rest  of  the  party  united  in  pronouncing  it  the  most 
interesting  thing  they  had  heard  for  a  long  time. 
Mrs.  Walton  went  on  with  her  story : — 

"I  was  carried  to  a  hotel  opposite,  and  all  the  ladies 
and  gentlemen  crowded  around  me,  and  used  every 
exertion  to  restore  me  to  consciousness.  In  the  mean 
time  Mr.  Walton  had  arrived,  and  at  last  my  dreadful 
fainting  fit  came  to  a  close,  and  I  opened  my  eyes  once 
more  upon  existence.  For  some  minutes  I  was  as 
tounded  to  look  around  and  find  myself  in  a  strange 
parlor,  crowded  with  faces  I  had  never  seen  before. 
But  suddenly  I  remembered  all  the  dreadful  truth, 
and  springing  wildly  from  the  sofa,  I  screamed, 
'Where's  my  children?  Give  me  my  children.  Oh! 
my  God,  I  know  that  my  children  are  burnt  alive.' 
At  that  moment  of  uncontrollable  agony,  a  servant, 
entered  with  my  two  darlings  in  his  arms.  They 
had  but  that  moment  been  rescued.  I  sprang  to 
wards  him,  seized  my  children,  covered  them  with 
kisses,  clasping  them  to  my  heart  with  the  wildest  and 
most  passionate  caresses,  and  then  went  off  into 
another  fainting  fit.  When  I  entirely  recovered,  the 
fire  had  been  extinguished  in  my  house,  my  husband 
bent  over  me  with  tones  of  love  and  words  of  endear 
ment,  and  told  me  that  a  boy  of  twelve  or  fourteen 
years  old,  wearing  a  white  coat  and  a  cap,  had  saved 
mx  children  at  the  risk  of  his  life.  Every  menus 
in  our  power  were  used  to  discover  the  saviour  of  our 
precious  babes,  but  it  availed  not ;  and  till  this  hour  I 


282  WAY-MARKS   IN  THE 

remained  in  ignorance  of  him.  God  is  merciful  that 
he  has  now,  in  this  remarkable  manner,  revealed  to 
me  that  which  I  had  never  hoped  to  discover  on  earth. 
Dear  Harry,  from  this  moment  consider  me  your 
mother,  and  I  will  love  you  as  my  own  son." 

"  And  most  blessed  and  happy  I  shall  be  in  the 
possession  of  such  a  mother ;  and  do  not  think  that  I 
will  fall  short  in  the  tenderness  of  a  son.  Let  this  be 
the  seal  to  the  compact."  He  raised  her  hand  affec 
tionately  to  his  lips,  and  breathed  upon  it  the  bless 
ings  and  love  of  a  filial  heart. 

"Do  tell  me,"  Mrs.  Jghnson,-said  Marcia,  "some 
thing  about  my  old  school-mates.  What  has  become 
of  Helen  Mars,  and  Adelaide  Black,  and  Jane  Ray, 
and  Isabella  Blacknell  ?  They  were  all  in  the  same 
class  with  me,  and  were  much  older  than  I  was,  with 
the  exception  of  Isabella." 

"  Helen  Mars  is  the  reigning  belle  of  New  York,  and 
she  was  pronounced  also  the  belle  of  Newport  and 
Saratoga.  There  has  been  some  talk  of  her  marrying 
a  rich  young  Englishman,  but  I  believe  that  has  all 
fallen  through.  She  has  crowds  of  admirers,  and  I 
am  of  opinion  that  she  favors  none  of  them. 

"  Adelaide  Black  always  was  a  serious,  earnest  kind 
of  a  girl.  She  became  a  member  of  the  church,  last 
summer,  and  was  married  to  a  Missionary  in  the  fall ; 
she  sailed  with  him,  in  October  last,  for  India,  an^I 
have  received  several  letters  from  her,  telling  me  that 
her  health  is  excellent,  and  describing  to  me  the  beau- 


LIFE  OF  A  WANDERER.  283 

ties  as  well  as  horrors  of  the  country.  She  told  me 
of  a  lion  hunt  she  went  to,  on  the  hack  of  an  elephant, 
and  the  description  was  so  thrilling,  that  my  hlood 
chilled  as  I  read  it.  Poor  Jane  Ray  is  an  orphan. 
You  know  she  always  was  delicate  at  school,  and 
now  her  health  is  miserable. 

"  She  was  always  taking  medicine  at  school.  I  often 
told  her  she  would  destroy  her  health  if  she  went  on 
taking  those  poisonous  drugs,  but  she  said  her  mother 
thought  it  was  neccessary. 

"  Well,  she  went  on  taking  them  till  her  constitu 
tion  became  entirely  destroyed.  It  never  was  very 
strong,  but  still,  with  proper  exercise  and  fresh  air, 
and  suitable  diet,  she  might  have  done  very  well.  I 
fear,  however,  that  this  next  winter  will  be  1ier  last 
on  earth. 

"  And  now  I  come  to  your  friend  and  play-mate, 
Isabella  Blacknell.  She  is  still  the  same  amiable, 
docile,  lovely  girl  she  was  at  school.  Her  face  bears 
the  same  impress  of  childish  beauty,  and  her  manners 
are  as  simple  and  unaffected  as  they  were  when  I 
first  knew  her ;  and  you  know  she  was  only  nine  years 
old  when  she  came  first  to  our  school.  She  is  very 
much  admired,  but  does  not  seem  to  notice  it,  much 
less  to  be  elated  by  it.  In  short,  she  is  one  of  the  few 
that  retains,  amid  all  the  intercourse  with  the  rude 
world,  the  pure  and  spotless  innocence  of  childhood." 

"  Does  she  seem  perfectly  happy  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  very  happy.     She  comes  often  to  sec  me, 


284  WAY-MARKS  IN   THE 

and  asks  always,  with  the  tenderest  interest,  after 
your  health." 

"Does  she  know  that  I  am  going  to  die,  so  soon?" 
asked  Marcia,  as  her  eyes  slowly  filled  with  tears. 

"I  told  her  all,  my  child." 

"And  no  doubt  she  found  some  tears  to  weep  in 
remembrance  of  her  school-mate  and  friend.  Alas, 
what  changes  a  few  years  bring  to  all  of  us.  Of  that 
bright,  young,  happy  class  of  gay,  glad  spirits,  one 
reigns  in  the  halls  of  fashion,  forgetful  of  the  pure 
happiness  of  her  girlhood,  and  intent  only  on  making 
conquests  of  the  rich  and  great ;  one  is  afar  from  her 
native  land,  amid  the  burning  sands  and  scorching 
heats  of  India;  another  has  lost  her  parents  and 
health,  and  knows  she  soon  must  die ;  a  fourth,  alone, 
is  happy,  and  retains  the  simplicity  and  meekness  of 
childhood;  and  I,  the  fifth,  far  from  the  home  of 
affection,  am  dying,  and  going  into  the  stranger's 
grave,  where  you,  my  dear  mother,  cannot  come  to 
plant  flowers  and  shed  tears  in  remembrance  of  her 
who  sleeps  beneath." 

"  Nay,  my  sweet  child,  if  it  be  your  wish,  I  will 
carry  you  home,  and  lay  you  in  our  own,  dear  Green 
wood,  beside  the  father  and  sister  whose  memory  you 
so  fondly  cherish.  Can  you  think  I  shall  forget  the 
last  duties  I  can  ever  pay  you?" 

"Ah,  no,  mother;  I  knew  I  should  only  have  to 
express  a  wish,  -and  you  would  gratify  it.  I  can  die 
more  easily  now,  when  I  know  that  your  dear  hands 


LIFE   OF  A   WANDERER.  285 

will  teach  the  roses  and  cypress  vines  to  cluster  and 
mingle  on  my  grave.  And  you,  dear  Harry — will 
you  not  often  leave  the  bustle  of  New  York  to  spend 
an  hour  at  that  lonely  spot,  made  sacred  by  the  memory 
of  the  cherished  dead?" 

"  Sweet  girl,  can  you  ask  me  such  a  question  ?  Ah, 
believe  me,  the  dearest  spot  on  earth  will  be  my  Mar- 
cia's  grave,  and  if  from  your  home  in  heaven  you  can 
look  down  upon  the  hallowed  beauties  of  Greenwood, 
you  will  often  see  your  devoted  lover  kneeling  at 
your  grave,  and  weeping  for  the  presence  of  the 
'  bright  morning-star  of  his  existence,  which  has  beg 
gared  his  life  in  vanishing.' " 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

A  gentleman  arrived  at  Pine  Grove,  and  was  closet 
ed  with  Mr.  Woodville  for  some  hours.  At  length 
lie  came  forth  to  seek  Marcia,  and  giving  her  a  paper, 
told  her  to  read  it.  Its  contents  puzzled  and  surprised 
her.  It  was  a  present  of  twenty  thousand  dollars, 
formally  made  over  from  Mr.  Woodville  to  his  adopt 
ed  daughter. 

"What  noble  generosity,"   said  Marcia,  handing 
the  paper  to  her  mother.     "  But,  I  cannot  understand 
why  father  does  this  now.     I  have  no  use  for  the 
25 


286  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

money.  I  am  going  where  the  blessings  of  God  are 
obtained  without  money  and  without  price." 

"  You  must  understand  Mr.  Woodville's  motive  to 
be,  that  you  may  do  as  you  please  with  the  money, 
and  bequeath  it  to  whom  you  like." 

"  Good,  kind  father.  I  see  now  why  he  has  done 
this.  God  in  taking  me  away  from  the  world  has 
raised  up  the  means  of  providing  for  my  loss  to  my 
dear  mother.  Please  have  a  will  drawn  up  speedily, 
and  bring  it  to  me7  and  I  will  sign  it.  Give  the 
entire  sum,  without  any  reservation,  to  my  dearly 
beloved  mother.  How  i&on  can  you  have  the  docu 
ment  ready  ?" 

"  About  this  time  to-morrow,  I  think." 

"  Do  not  let  it  be  longer.  My  strength  is  failing 
fast.  I  would  not  die  till  it  is  accomplished." 

"I  shall  use  all  possible  diligence,  rest  assured." 

The  lawyer  bowe"d  and  retired.  Marcia  threw  her 
arms  about  her  mother's  neck,  and  said — 

"  How  happy  I  am.  I  can  die  easy  now,  for  you 
will  be  removed  from  want.  You  can  surround  your 
self  with  every  comfort.  You  can  educate  dear  Benny. 
Why  do  you  not  rejoice  with  me?  What  makes  you 
look  so  sad?" 

"Alas!  can  you  ask?  Does  not  the  very  act  that 
makes  me  rich,  deprive  me  of  my  blessed  child,  my 
darling  daughter?" 

"  Do  not  weep.  You  will  still  have  a  son.  A  son, 
did  I  say  ?  Nay,  then,  but  you  will  have  two  sons. 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER.  287 

Will  not  my  dearly-loved,  my  idolized  Harry,  have  a 
place  in  your  heart,  my  mother?" 

"  Oh !  yes,  but  nothing  can  fill  the  void  'your  loss 
will  make,  my  sinless  child.  Oh !  to  think  how  fondly 
I  have  loved  you,  how  tenderly  I  watched  over  your 
helpless  infancy,  your  innocent  childhood.  How 
jealously  I  guarded  you  from  evil  and  wrong.  How 
I  have  prayed  and  wept  for  blessings  on  the  Wan 
derer's  way;  and  now — now  to  lose  you,  to  see  you 
go  down  and  take  your  place  beside  the  husband  of 
my  youth,  and  my  first  born  daughter.  Alas !  alas ! 
it  is  too  much.  There  will  only  remain  one  poor, 
little,  delicate,  tiny  child,  and  what  if  I  lose  him  too  ? 
But  a  slender  thread  unites  him  to  life.  I  cannot  bear 
to  think  of  it." 

"Are  you  resolved,  dear  mother,  to  exclude  dear 
Harry  from  your  heart  ?  Will  you  not  suffer  the 
noble,  generous  preserver  of  my  life  in  infancy,  to  fill 
the  vacancy  I  shall  make  ?  Oh !  mother,  he  is  worthy 
of  your  love.  He  is  good  and  kind.  He  loves  me 
with  his  whole  heart.  Can  you  help  feeling  affection 
for  one  who  has  loved  me  so  tenderly  ?  Methinks  that 
should  be  a  tie  to  bind  you  closely  together.  In  the 
long  winter  evenings  you  can  sit  together  and  talk  of 
me.  In  the  long  days  of  summer  you  can  visit  and 
beautify  my  grave.  Say,  mother,  dear,  will  you  not 
be  reconciled?" 

"I  will  try,  dearest.  I  cannot  talk  calmly  about  it 
now,  but  I  remember,  my  sweet  child,  the  portrait 


288  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

X 

painter  is  to  be  here  this  morning,  and  he  will  be  ready 
to  take  the  first  sitting  within  an  hour.  Do  you  feel 
equal  to  the  task?" 

"I  am  quite  weak,  but  if  I  take  a  little  sleep  per 
haps  I  shall  be  stronger.  Please  draw  the  curtains 
close,  and  then  sit  down  beside  me,  and  lay  my  head 
in  your  bosom." 

Mrs.  Walton  did  as  she  was  directed,  and  in  a  few 
moments  the  beautifully  violet-colored  eyes  closed  in  a 
gentle  sleep,  and  a  sweet  smile  played  over  the  in 
valid's  face,  seeming  like  light  from  that  happy  coun 
try  beyond  the  stars. 

The  hour  drew  to  a  close,  and  Mrs.  Woodvillc  came 
to  announce  the  arrival  of  the  portrait  painter.  The 
least  noise  was  sufficient  to  break  the  slumber  of  the 
lovely  sleeper.  She  told  Mrs.  Woodville  she  was  quite 
ready  for  the  sitting.  Placed  in  a  large  chair  of 
crimson  velvet,  with  her  snowy  drapery  falling  loosely 
around  her,  and  displaying  the  perfect  roundness  of 
one  beautiful  shoulder,  and  the  exquisite  proportions 
of  her  neck  and  bosom,  Marcia  sat,  awaiting  the 
entrance  of  the  artist  who  had  been  sent  for  from  New 
Orleans,  to  paint  her  portrait, — and  who  had  acquired, 
in  Italy  and  France,  a  just  celebrity  for  the  truthful 
ness  and  beauty  of  his  pictures.  Used  as  he  was  to 
all  the  rich  beauty  of  southern  climes,  still  he  started 
with  admiration  as  he  discovered  sitting  in  the  shadowy 
light,  the  fair  Wanderer  of  our  story.  What  she  had 
lost  in  the  healthy  fullness  of  her  cheek,  was  made  up 


LIFE   OF  A  WANDERER.  289 

in  the  brilliant  hectic  which  burned  in  bright  spots  on 
her  face,  and  in  the  high  intelligence  that  lightened 
up  her  eyes  with  supernatural  beauty.  The  expression 
of  pensive  thought  and  girlish  innocence  was  serenely 
blended,  and,  in  a  word,  she  was  the  embodiment  of 
all  that  is  lovely  and  beautiful  on  earth — all  that  is 
holy  and  angelic  in  heaven. 

For  one  weary  hour  the  artist  plyed  his  brushes, 
and  so  eager  was  he  to  complete  his  picture,  he  would 
have  worked  at  it  all  day,  had  he  not  been  gently 
reminded  by  Harry  Percy  that  the  poor  invalid's 
strength  was  giving  out,  and  that  he  must  not  expect 
too  much  at  once.  It  was  well  he  stopped  just  when 
he  did,  for  Marcia  was  again  seized  with  one  of  those 
terrible  fits  of  shortness  of  breath,  that  usually  para 
lyzed  all  present.  Indeed,  they  were  appalling  to 
witness.  No  one  can  judge  how  much  so,  till  they 
have  themselves  seen  the  gasping  agony  of  a  dying 
soul  for  breath,  vainly  struggling  to  regain  it,  iill 
black  in  the  face. 

But  these  paroxysms  were  of  short  duration.  In 
deed,  no  human  being  could  have  lived  through  them 
had  they  been  long ;  and  now,  completely  exhausted, 
Marcia  laid  on  the  sofa,  as  pallid  and  hueless  as  the 
face  of  death. 

Octave  and  Mary  came  in  the  afternoon,  and  the 
pretty  little  Kate  was  with  them.  Octave  talked  gaily 
to  Marcia,  tried  to  raise  her  sinking  spirits,  and  told 
25* 


290  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

her  many  anecdotes  about  John  Woodville,  at  which 
she  was  obliged  to  laugh. 

"You  should  see  him,"  said  he,  "when  Mary  tells 
him  to  hand  her  work  basket.  He  will,  in  the  most 
demure  manner,  bring  her  a  glass  of  water.  If  she 
asks  him  for  a  book  he  will  bring  her  a  thimble.  Per 
haps  she  wants  the  saddle  horses  brought  out  to  take 
a  ride.  He  walks  out  and  tells  the  cook  her  mistress 
wants  her  to  make  rice-cakes  for  supper." 

"What  are  you  all  laughing  at?"  said  John,  who  at 
that  moment  appeared  at  the  door. 

"Nothing  of  any  consequence,"  said  Octave. 

"I  should  think  not,  if  it  were  any  thing  you  had 
to  tell.  Marcia,  I  have  been  getting  my  likeness 
taken.  Should  you  like  to  see  it?  People  say  it 
flatters  me  too  much." 

"Pray  let  me  see  it,"  said  Marcia.  John  opened 
a  small  leather  case  and.  handed  it  to  her.  She  took 
it  with  a  look  of  serious  scrutiny,  which  the  next  mo 
ment  was  changed  into  a  laugh ;  for  the  case  contained 
nothing  but  the  picture  of  a  baboon. 

At  this  moment  Laurie  entered  with  her  cat,  and 
John  raised  another  laugh  by  very  ceremoniously 
introducing  pussy  as  his  neice.  Kate  told  him  she 
was  not  prepossessed  in  favor  of  the  cat,  if  it  were  a 
specimen  of  his  relations. 

"Mother,"  said  Octave,  "I  will  just  tell  you  what 
brought  Mary  over  here  to-day." 


LIFE   OP  A  WANDERER.  291 

"Don't  believe  him,"  cried  Mary.  "He  thinks 
nothing  of  telling  stories." 

"  I  leave  it  to  Kate,  if  it  be  a  story.  Mary  said  let's 
go  over  to  mother's  to-day,  and  get  some  strawberries. 
Now,  deny  that,  if  you  can." 

"Mother,  these  very  words  he  said  himself.  I  leave 
it  to  Kate,  if  he  did  not." 

"  You  will  have  to  settle  it  between  you,"  said  Kate, 
laughing,  "  I  have  always  heard  it  was  a  dangerous 
thing  for  a  third  party  to  meddle  in  matrimonial  af 
fairs." 

"I  have  no  doubt  it  is  so,  and  yet  I  wish  it  were 
not,"  said  poor  Mr.  Johnson,  in  a  low  tone  of  voice. 

"I  leave  it  to  all  present  if  Mary  did  not  say  so, 
and  I  will  prove  it  to  you.  In  the  first  place,  I  said 
it  myself.  In  the  second  place,  Mary  and  I  have  be 
come  one.  In  the  third  place,  Mary  said  so,  because 
I  did.  Now,  aint  that  all  plain  enough,  I  would  ask?" 

A  general  "yes,"  followed  this  question,  joined 
in  by  every  one  present  but  Mrs.  Johnson;  and  poor 
Mary  had  to  confess,  with  a  merry  laugh  and  an 
ominous  shake  of  the  finger,  that  Octave  wa»  right  for 
once  in  the  world,  and  that  she  was  wrong. 

"Who  will  pick  the  strawberries?"  said  Mrs.  Wood 
pile. 

"Let  me  help.  Oh!  I  love  to  pick  them  so  much," 
said  Kate. 

"I  will  go  too,  mother,"  said  Mary,  and  Flora  and 


292  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

Laurie  both  joined  their  entreaties  to  be  allowed  to  go 
to  the  strawberry  beds. 

Of  course  Octave  carried  a  small  basket  for  Mary's 
accommodation,  and  John  followed  his  example  with 
Kate.  I  do  not  know  how  it  was,  but  Octave  returned 
with  a  basket  full  of  berries,  while  that  of  John's  had 
not  more  than  a  dozen  in  it. 

"Oh!  you  lazy  boy,"  said  Mrs.  Woodville,  as  he 
presented  his  basket. 

"I  don't  believe  he  is  lazy,"  said  Octave.  "I  do 
not  doubt  he  has  been  industriously  employed  tor 
menting  poor  Kate,  every  moment  since  he  has  been 
gone." 

"Has  he  Kate, ?"  asked  Mary. 

Kate's  rosy  cheeks  were  rosier  still,  and  without 
replying,  she  ran  away  to  Marcia. 

"A  very  suspicious  circumstance,"  said  Octave, 
"and  I  think  with  those  features  we  might  make  out 
a  very  strong  case." 

"Were  you  ever  happy,  uncle,  in  your  life,  that 
you  were  not  tormenting  some  one?"  asked  John. 

"I  might,  with  still  greater  propriety,  ask  you  the 
same  question;  for  a  greater  torment  and  plague 
never  had  existence  on  earth.  I  used  absolutely  to 
be  afraid  to  meet  you  when  I  was  coming  from  father 
Jones's  plantation." 

"Poor  little  thing.  You  needed  some  one  to  pro 
tect  you  from  madcap  John,  did  you?" 


LIFE   OF   A  WANDERER.  293 

"  Come,  come  boys ;  I  see  them  coming  to  call  us 
to  supper,"  said  Mrs.  Woodville.  ' 

The  tea  table  was  laid  on  the  porch,  and  softly  sha 
ded  from  too  much  light  by  the  rose  vines  which  grew 
all  over  the  front  of  the  house.  The  sofa  on  which 
Marcia  was  laid,  was  rolled  out  into  the  porch,  and 
placed  at  the  table.  The  family  took  their  places  at 
the  hospitable  board,  and  Mr.  "Woodville  asked  a 
blessing.  It  was  a  beautiful  sight.  That  large  family 
reunited.  Mrs.  Walton,  her  two  children,  the  friend 
of  her  husband,  and  the  teacher  of  her  child,  all  as 
sembled  at  that  richly  supplied  table.  Let  us  not 
except  the  noble  Harry  Percy,  and  the  far-famed 
artist,  who  was  so  intent  in  looking  at  the  fair  face 
before  him,  that  he  seemed  unable  to  eat  his  supper. 
In  fact  he  knew  that  before  his  picture  was  completed, 
the  lovely  original  would  be  no  more,  and  he  studied 
the  beauties  of  her  changing  face  while  living,  satisfied 
that  his  mind  would  retain  them  after  her  death,  and 
he  could  then  paint  from  memory. 

A  pleasant  family  party  was  that,  broken  up  only 
to  let  them  all  pair  off,  and  walk  through  the  well 
graveled  paths  of  the  garden.  And  Marcia  watched 
them  as  they  walked  to  and  fro,  listened  to  Kate's 
silvery  laugh,  and  Mary's  happy  prattling ;  but  at 
length  she  turned  to  the  two  dear  ones  who  sat  beside 
her,  and  begged  them  to  go  and  join  the  rest  of  the 
party  in  their  healthful  exercise.  Mrs.  Walton  at 
last  consented,  and  Mr.  Woodville  coming  up  at  the 


294  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

moment,  took  her  arm  in  his,  and  bore  her  off,  leav 
ing  Harry  Percy  to  amuse  Marcia. 

"  Go  walk,  dearest.     It  will  do  you  good." 

"  Nay,  my  sweet  love :  it  does  me  far  more  good  to 
sit  near  you,  to  hold  your  hand  thus ;  to  look  into 
your  dear  face,  and  read  its  love  for  me.  Do  not 
banish  me  from  you." 

"  Banish  you,  dear  Harry.  You  know  I  could  not 
do  that.  The  most  precious  joy  I  know  in  living  is 
that  of  your  presence.  I  feel  cold  and  dead  when 
you  are  absent,  but  when  you  are  near  me  I  am 
another  being,  instinct  with  hope  and  joy,  and  I  feel, 
at  such  times,  there  are  two  principles,  or  rather  I 
should  say,  passions,  warring  within  me  for  the  mas 
tery,  and  the  names  of  these  opposing  powers  are 
Love  and  Death." 

"  Would  to  God  that  Love  might  be  the  victor,  and 
award  me  the  boon  I  would  prize  higher  than  any 
honor  earth  could  grant.  But,  I  do  you  grievous 
wrong  to  talk  to  you  thus.  I,  that  should  seek  to  re 
concile  you  to  your  lot,  and  strengthen  your  weakness. 
Pardon  me,  dear  love,  and  tell  me  what  I  shall  talk 
about  to  amuse  you." 

"It  matters  little  what  the  subject,  if  it  be  your 
voice  I  hear." 

"  Sweet  flattery.  Do  not,  dear  Marcia,  talk  to  me 
thus,  or  I  shall  be  spoiled.  I  seem,  when  I  come  near 
you,  to  lose  all  my  pride  and  dignity,  and  become  ten 
der  and  gentle  as  yourself.  I  know  not  what  strange 


LIFE   OP  A   WANDERER.  295 

influence  you  exercise  over  me,  but  I  have  no  longer 
a  will  in  your  presence." 

"  I  am  no  witch,  Harry,  so  do  not  accuse  me  of  it, 
and  as  to  spoiling  you,  nothing  on  earth  can  do  that. 
Were  you  a  person  that  could  be  spoiled,  this  way 
ward  heart  of  mine  had  never  acknowledged  your 
sway." 

"  How  did  you  know,  sweet  innocent,  what  my  dis 
position  was  when  you  first  saw  me  ?  and  it  was  then 
that  you  loved  me,  was  it  not?" 

"Yes,  dear  Harry — in  the  first  smile  that  broke 
over  your  face,  awoke  the  love  which  will  end  only 
with  life.  I  knew  nothing  of  you,  it  is  true,  but  had 
you  been  false-hearted  and  base,  my  impulses,  which 
have  never  yet  deceived  me,  would  have  given  me 
warning  of  your  character.  You  smiled  upon  me 
that  bright  and  sunny  smile,  which  expresses  so  much 
of  the  truthful  sincerity,  and  boyish  innocence  of 
your  heart ;  and  that  look  shone  upon  me  ;  lit  up  the 
darkened  recessess  of  my  soul,  spoke  to  me  of  love 
and  hope,  and.their  many  thousand  joys,  and  shrined 
itself  upon  the  virgin  tablets  of  my  heart,  to  the  pre 
clusion  of  all  meaner  loves.  Do  you  say  this  is 
romance  ?  Call  it  so  if  you  will,  I  know  not  what  it 
is,  but  this  I  know,  living  or  dying,  I .  am  yours  with 
all  the  tender  devotion  that  ever  filled  the  breast  of 
woman.  Nothing  but  death  can  make  me  forget  you, 
and  you  know,  dearest,  that  death  remembers  not." 

"  How  singular  that  you  should  thus  have  loved 


296  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

him,  who  for  three  years  before  had  watched  you ;  as 
slowly  and  beautifully  you  expanded  from  the  child 
into  the  perfect  woman;  who  without  ever  having  spo 
ken  to  you,  gave  you  his  heart,  and  who  flew  on  the 
wings  of  love  to  be  near  you  when  he  heard  of  your 
illness." 

"  Nay,  it  was  not  strange,  dear  Harry.  It  was  but 
the  secret  affinity  of  pure  and  spotless  love.  Believe 
me,  there  are  ties  that  bind  souls  together,  and  let 
what  will  start  up  to  separate  them,  still  they  unite, 
and  hold  that  sweet  intercourse  which  diffuses  through 
their  existence  the  purest  happiness  known  to  mortals. 
Regardless  of  obstacles,  unmoved  by  time  or  distance, 
unchilled  by  adversity,  faithful  and  true  through  evil 
and  through  good  report,  true  love  burns  on,  a  stead 
fast  and  holy  flame,  lighted  only  at  the  shrine  of  God 
himself." 

"  It  must  be  as  you  say,  dearest.  You  have  but 
given  expression  in  language  to  the  thoughts  of  my 
heart.  But,  see,  our  conversation  is  about  to  be 
brought  to  a  close ;  for  warned  by  the  coming  dark 
ness  they  are  all  returning  to  the  house." 

"  I  shall  retire  as  soon  as  mother  gets  here.  I 
must  sit  up  for  my  portrait  to-morrow,  and  I  must 
try  to  get  a  good  rest  to-night.  Kiss  me — good  night 
now,  and  please  send  Susan  to  help  roll  me  in." 

The  morning  came,  and  at  the  appointed  hour  came 
the  attorney  from  D.  with  the  will  ready  to  be  sign 
ed.  Marcia  wrote  her  name  in  free,  bold  characters, 


LIFE   OF  A  WANDERER.  297 

and  then  signified  her  readiness  for  the  admission  of 
the  artist.  The  scene  of  the  day  before  was  repeated, 
and  Harry  Percy  saw  starting  forth  upon  the  can 
vas,  a  living  resemblance  of  his  tenderly-loved  Mar- 
cia.  He  felt  that  now,  indeed,  he  should  possess  a  link 
that  would  be  omnipotent  in  bringing  the  blessed  past 
before  him.  He  shared  all  the  enthusiasm  of  the  artist, 
and  nearly  two  hours  passed  away  before  he  thought 
of  the  fatigue  the  poor  girl  was  suffering. 

"  Come,  let  that  do  for  to-day.  Poor  thing,  she 
cannot  stand  it  any  longer." 

"  Well,  one  more  sitting,  and  I  think  we  shall  have 
it  perfect.  You  will  promise  one  more  to-morrow, 
Miss  Walton  ?" 

"  If  I  live,"  was  the  mild  reply,  spoken  in  the  soft, 
gentle  voice  that  thrilled  ever  to  the  hearts  of  all 
who  heard  it. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

. 

"  What  though  the  loving  heart  is  wrung 
By  chilling  words  of  cold  farewell? 
And  o'er  its  dying  hopes  is  flung 
The  echoing  knelll 

Shall  we  not  all  meet  there  to  love, 
With  love  that  has  no  trembling  fears* 
In  that  dear  home,  far,  far  above 
This  land  of  tears?1' 

Marcia   slept  a  long  time,   and  awoke   refreshed. 
After  partaking  of  a  slight  repast,  she  expressed  a 
26 


298  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

wish  to  see  all  the  children.  She  wanted  them  to 
come  in  and  play  about  her  room.  One  after  another 
they  drew  near  her,  received  her  kiss  of  affection,  and 
kindly  wishes,  and  then  they  commenced  to  play,  not 
with  the  wild,  boisterous  mirth  of  childhood,  but  with 
subdued  gentleness  prompted  by  their  love  for  the 
fair  young  invalid.  Little  Benny  drew  near  his  sister, 
kissed  her,  and  then  laid  his  head  down  on  her  pillow, 
while  she  caressingly  passed  her  hand  over  his  sunny 
curls.  Mr.  Woodville  entered  the  room,  and  ap 
proached  her. 

"Sit  down,  father,"  she  said.  "I  have  been  want 
ing  to  see  you  so  much  all  day." 

"I  did  not  come  before,  my  daughter,  because  I 
feared  I  should  disturb  you.  Tell  me  what  you  wanted 
to  see  me  for  ?  You  know  I  am  always  obedient  to 
your  wishes." 

"I  have  no  wishes  to  make  known  to  you,  dear 
father,  only  to  tell  you  to  remember  me  when  I  am 
gone." 

"  Can  I  ever  forget  you,  sweet  vision  of  youth  and 
innocence  ?  Ah !  think  it  not.  God  sent  you  to  me 
to  make  me  love  my  fellow  creatures  more.  You  have 
softened  a  hard  heart,  and  taught  me  to  pity  where  I 
used  to  judge  with  harshness  and  view  with  suspicion." 

"  Then  my  life  has  not  been  useless ;  and,  indeed, 
each  day  as  I  grow  older  I  am  convinced,  more  and 
more,  that  we  should  have  charity  with  all  men. 
Sometimes  people  err  from  a  wrong  education,  which 


LIFE    OF    A   WANDERER.  299 

has  taught  them  to  view  every  thing  through  a  false 
medium." 

"Ah!  believe  me,  my  child,  we  are  all  the  creatures 
of  circumstances.  We  say,  when  we  hear  that  so  and 
so  has  done  such  a  thing,  we  should  never  have  acted 
so;  but  we  don't  know  any  thing  about  it.  We  never 
know  what  we  will  do  till  we  are  tried.  Happy  are 
they  who  glide  along  the  current  of  life,  and  never 
feel  its  cares  and  sorrows,  but  happier  far  are  they 
who,  although  surrounded  by  trouble,  and  sorely  af 
flicted,  fight  the  good  fight,  and  come  out  of  the  fur 
nace  purified  and  strengthened.  But,  Marcia,  I  will 
not  weary  you  by  talking  so  much.  I  should  not  for 
get  how  long  you  were  forced  to  sit  up  this  morning 
for  the  painter.  How  do  you  feel,  my  child?" 

"Very  weak,  but  it  seems  as  if  all  pain  had  left  me. 
I  know  not  how  to  account  for  the  strange  feeling  of 
happiness  that  is  filling  my  heart.  It  seems  to  me 
that  I  must  be  drawing  very  near  to  the  hour  when  I 
shall  throw  oft"  this  poor  corruptible  body,  and  put  on 
the  robes  of  immortality." 

"And  do  you  shrink,  my  daughter,  from  the  trial? 
Have  you  sufficiently  weaned  your  heart  and  its 
affections  from  those  you  love,  to  be  willing  to  go 
when  God  calls  you  home?" 

"  It  is  a  difficult  question  to  answer,  dear  father.  I 
may  say  I  do  not  love  any  of  you  less,  but  I  love  God 
and  my  Redeemer  more.  I  bid  you  farewell  only  for 
a  little  season.  I  shall  meet  you  in  that  land  where 


300  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

farewells  are  unspoken,  and  partings  are  unknown. 
We  certainly  cease  to  hate  when  we  leave  this  world, 
but  let  us  hope  we  do  not  cease  to  love." 

"Very  true,  if  that  love  does  not  carry  with  it  the 
jealousies,  disappointments  and  sorrows  of  humanity." 

"Of  course  heaven  would  exclude  all  these.  We 
shall  love  with  all  the  pure,  holy  affection  of  angels, 
but  the  black  passions  which  stand  between  us  and 
happiness  here,  will  have  no  power  to  torment  our 
souls  hereafter.  I  have  come  to  look  upon  heaven  as 
the  fruition  of  bliss.  God  would  not  have  created 
within  us  those  yearnings  for  happiness,  if  he  had  not 
also  created  happiness  for  us.  He  loves  me  tenderly, 
and  in  removing  me  from  the  sorrows  and  temptations 
of  life,  he  proves  his  undying  and  boundless  love.  A 
short  time  ago  I  could  not  recognize  a  blessing  in  so 
severe  a  blow.  My  eyes  are  opened,  and  I  feel  that 
in  leaving  all  the  bright  things  of  earth,  that  smile  but 
to  deceive  us,  that  I  shall  inherit  a  far  more  exceeding 
and  eternal  weight  of  glory;  and  I  can  say,  in  all 
truth  and  sincerity,  '  Thy  will  be  done.' ': 

"You  look  beyond  the  clouds  and  darkness  that 
shadow  the  view  of  death,  my  child,  else  you  could  not 
speak  so  calmly.  How  rejoiced  I  am  to  find  you  thus 
tranquil  and  happy.  You  are  teaching  us  a  lesson  of 
submission,  and  I  trust  we  may  profit  by  it.  I  will 
leave  you  now,  for  here  is  Harry,  and  he  cannot  fail 
of  proving  better  company  than  your  poor  old  father." 

"I  should  be  very  ungrateful  to  think  so." 


LIFE   OP   A   WANDERER.  301 

r 

Mr.  Woodville  left  the  room,  and  Harry  Percy  took 
his  place  at  the  side  of  his  beloved.  For  long  hours 
they  talked,  dwelling  on  the  happiness  of  the  last  few 
weeks,  and  recalling  every  word  and  look  of  affection 
that  had  passed  between  them.  Poor  things,  they 
could  only  look  back,  for  unlike  the  many  lovers  that 
we  meet,  they  could  not  revel  in  the  future.  Ah! 
think  how  sad  and  lonely  you  would  be,  if  the  bright 
hopes  of  your  heart  were  thus  clouded.  You  can  bear 
the  ills  of  to-day  with  fortitude.  You  can  bow  beneath 
the  storms  that  sweep  over  you,  for  you  say  there  is  a 
better  day  coming.  There  is  a  bright  and  happy 
future.  Oh!  pity  then  the  dark  fate  of  those  who 
have  no  hope  save  in  death.  Who  live  from  day  to 
day,  and  go  through  all  the  duties  of  life,  and  yet 
whose  hearts  lie  cold  and  dead  within  them,  whose 
pulses  never  quicken  with  the  glad  thrillings  of  hope. 

But,  as  Marcia  sat  and  talked,  with  her  head  resting 
on  the  bosom  of  him  she  loved,  and  her  arms  twined 
affectionately  about  him,  a  fearful  paleness  overspread 
her  features.  She  said,  in  a  low,  distinct  voice — 

"  Susan,  call  my  mother  and  Benny.  I  am  going 
fast.  Be  quick." 

Susan  instantly  did  as  she  was  ordered.  Harry 
Percy  bent  over  her.  He  smoothed  back  the  wet, 
tangled  curls  from  her  pure  white  forehead.  He 
sought  by  the  tenderest  caresses  to  soothe  her  sinking 
spirits.  Mrs.  "Walton  entered,  followed  by  every 
member  of  the  family.  Harry  Percy  laid  the  dear 
26* 


302  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

^c.    v 

head  on  Mrs.  Walton's  bosom,  and  then  knelt  beside 

-  w 

her.     She  said — 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you  once  more.  Octave  is  not 
here.  It  is  well.  You  have  all  been  kind  and  good 
to  me,  and  I  hope  to  meet  you  in  that  land  where 
there  is  no  death.  Farewell,  my  dear  teacher,  fare 
well.  May  God  bless  you  all  for  the  light  you  have 
shed  upon  the  Wanderer's  way.  Harry,  dear,  take  a 
pencil  and  write  some  verses  as  I  repeat  them  to  you." 

Harry  did  as  he  was  directed,  and  thus  he  wrote : — 


THE  LAST  SIGHS  OP  THE  DYING. 

I  am  dying ;  I  am  dying.     The  cold  night  breeze  of  death, 
Is  fanning  now  my  pallid  brow,  I  feel  its  icy  breath. 
The  gay,  the  young,  the  beautiful  are  fading  from  my  sight ; 
Dark  shadows  creep  around  me.    They  vail  me  from  the  light. 

I  am  dying ;  I  am  dying.     Oh !  never,  never  more, 
Can  Love  or  Hope  delight  me,  my  pleasures  here  are  o'er, 
I  must  leave  thee,  my  heart's  idol ;  Oh !  hear  my  dying  lay, 
And  think  of  me,  dear  Harry,  when  I  am  far  away. 

I  am  dying;  I  am  dying :     My  voice  is  failing  fast: 
Each  breath  that  comes  so  painful,  seems  to  me  to  be  the  last. 
And  yet  my  heart  devoted,  teems  with  images  of  thee, 
Then  soothe  my  dying  agony,  and  say  thou'lt  think  of  me. 

I  am  dying ;  I  am  dying  :     Throw  wide  the  curtains,  dear, 
Oh!  let  the  soft  spring  breezes  play  gently  round  me  here; 
I  inhale  the  fragrant  blossoms,  borne  on  the  balmy  air ; 
How  once  I  loved  to  twine  them  in  the  tresses  of  my  hair. 


LIFE   OF  A   WANDERER.  303 

I  am  dying;  I  am  dying  ;     Oh !  why  will  vain  regret, 

Hang  round  my  last  sad  hours,  and  distress  me  even  yet: 

Oh  !  Heavenly  Father  aid  me,  and  clear  the  darkening  way, 

Which  leads  through  Night  and  Sorrow,  to  a  bright  and  glorious  day. 

I  am  dying ;  I  am  dying.     Farewell  my  mother  sweet ; 
Farewell,  beloved  father;  dear  Benny  do  not  weep. 
Harry,  I  go  to  glory.     Oh  !  meet  me  in  the  sky ; 
I  come,  my  blessed  Saviour :  I  breathe  my  last,  and  die. 


Suddenly  the  lips  of  the  sufferer  moved  convulsively, 
and  then  her  teeth  chattered  like  a  person  in  a  strong 
ague  fit.  Rolling  her  large  eyes  up,  and  fixing  them 
with  an  expression  of  the  most  touching  beauty  and 
innocence,  she  said — 

"Mother,  what  is  that?  What  makes  my  teeth 
chatter  so?" 

The  answer,  spoken  in  a  low,  solemn  tone,  which 
was,  however,  fearfully  distinct,  was — 

"My  daughter,  this  is  death!" 

It  rang  through  the  silent  apartment,  like  the  knell 
of  a  broken  heart.  One  after  another  every  one  drew 
near,  kissed  the  pale  cheek  and  brow  of  the  dying  girl, 
and  breathed  their  blessings  on  her  head.  Then  her 
brother  received  the  last  words  of  advice,  the  last  kiss 
of  a  sister  he  loved  tenderly ;  but  unable  to  restrain 
his  tears  he  wept  upon  her  bosom. 

And  now,  her  mother  clasped  her  dying  child  to  her 
heart,  and  asked  her  if  she  knew  who  it  was  that  held 
her  thus  fondly.  "Ah!"  said  the  sweet  invalid, 


304  WAY-MAKES   IN  THE 

"could  I  in  life  forget  my  blessed  mother."  Then, 
with  the  strange  energy  which  often  comes  in  the 
struggle  between  life  and  death,  she  raised  herself 
from  her  mother's  breast,  and  throwing  her  arms 
around  Harry's  neck,  rested  her  head  on  his  shoulder. 
Gently  he  turned  her  face  to  meet  his  own,  and  pressed 
his  warm  lips  upon  her  cold,  compressed  mouth.  For 
one  instant  she  returned  the  thrilling  pressure:  for 
one  instant  she  held  tightly  to  her  innocent  bosom  the 
form  she  loved  so  dearly :  for  one  instant  the  hearts 
that  loved  so  tenderly  united  in  their  throbbings ;  and 
then  a  smile,  like  light  from  heaven,  irradiated  her 
face :  she  sighed  the  dear  name  of  Harry,  and  straight 
ening  herself,  she  closed  her  eyes,  and  plunged  into 
the  dark  ocean  of  Eternity. 

Thus  died  one  of  the  loveliest  of  the  daughters  of 
earth.  Thus,  in  the  morning  of  life,  with  the  diadem 
of  virgin  purity  upon  her  brow,  with  the  spotless  beauty 
of  innocence  upon  her  breast,  she  passed  away,  leav 
ing  behind  a  void  in  the  hearts  of  affection,  that  other 
love  could  never  fill. 

It  was  thus  that  Harry  wrote  of  her,  a  few  days 
ago,  when  he  visited  her  last  resting  place : 

TO  MY  LOVED  AND  LOST  MARC1A. 

Lovely  wort  thou  as  the  stars, 

That  shine  so  bright  at  hour  of  even; 
Lovely  wert  thou  as  the  moon, 

That  silvers  o'er  night's  slarry  heaven. 


LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER.  305 

Lovely  wert  thou  as  the  flowers, 

That  bloom  and  scent  the  sunny  air, 
Aye,  sweeter  far  than  life's  gay  hours, 

Wert  thou,  fairest  of  the  fair. 

'Neath  the  weeping  willow  bending, 

Gazing  on  thy  lonely  grave; 
Mourn  I  still  with  tears  unending, 

How  we  lost  the  power  to  save. 
Gently  moans  the  winds  about  thee, 

Fair  young  flowers  their  perfume  shed  ; 
I  am  lost,  undone,  without  thee, 

My  early  loved,  and  early  dead. 

Marcia,  sweet,  tho'  death  has  torn  thee, 

From  my  loving  breast  away, 
Though  the  angels  far  have  borne  thee, 

To  the  realms  of  endless  day ; 
Still  my  heart  is  not  all  sadness : 

Dearest,  we  shall  meet  again, 
In  that  land  of  joy  and  gladness, 

Where  God  permits  not  care  or  pain. 

Fare  thee  well,  then.     Thus  I  breathe  thee 

Vows  of  endless  truth  and  love. 
Never,  dear  one,  ah !  believe  me, 

Shall  I  cease  to  look  above,— 
Where,  'mid  bands  of  angels  singing, 

Tuning  thy  harp  to  sweetest  praise, 
Thou  o'er  its  golden  chords  art  flinging, 

The  hopes  of  brighter,  happier  days. 


306  WAY-MAKKS   IN   THE 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

My  task  is  well  nigh  done.  It  remains  for  me  now 
to  look  about  me  and  see  what  has  become  of  the 
characters  that  have  played  a  part  in  my  story. 

Octave  Woodville  still  lives  on  his  plantation,  with 
his  lovely  young  wife ;  and  a  second  Mary  has  come 
to  bless  their  youth,  and  bring  joy  to  their  household. 
Mrs.  Woodville  moves  about  her  home  with  the  same 
stately  dignity,  and  within  her  bosom  beats  the  same 
affectionate  heart.  Her  grandchildren  are  progress 
ing  in  their  studies,  and  often,  when  they  all  assemble 
in  the  evening,  they  recall  the  visions  of  the  past,  and 
gaze  upon  the  touching  pictures  that  memory  brings 
before  them.  The  name  of  Marcia  is  held  in  rever 
ence  among  them,  and  they  regard  her  as  an  angel 
who  once  lingered  near  them,  to  teach  them  of  another 
and  a  better  world. 

In  a  very  comfortable  house  in  Brooklyn,  may  be 
found  our  friends,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Johnson.  Mr.  J.  is  as 
good-natured  as  ever,  and  Mrs.  J.,  becoming  awakened 
to  the  unkindness  of  her  feelings  and  actions  to  one 
she  had  promised  at  the  altar  of  God  to  love,  honor, 
and  obey,  now  makes  the  most  affectionate  and  duti 
ful  of  wives.  Need  I  add  that  they  often  go  to  the 
Wanderer's  grave,  and  recall  the  sweet  time  when, 


LIFE   OF  A  WANDERER.  307 

like  a  fairy  spirit,  she  moved  about  them,  smiled  her 
sweet  smiles,  and  laughed  her  merry  laugh,  and  woke 
within  their  hearts  the  love  that  death  itself  could  not 
eradicate. 

The  wicked  Mary  was  sold,  with  her  son  Jacob,  to 
an  extensive  cotton  grower  in  Louisiana.  She  has 
been  placed  at  labor  in  the  field,  and  is  removed  from 
the  chance  of  harming  Octave's  young  and  lovely 
wife. 

On  the  banks  of  the  beautiful  Connecticut,  a  lovely 
residence,  embowered  in  trees,  and  surrounded  by 
verdant  lawns,  flowery  parterres,  leafy  woods  and 
murmering  waterfalls,  contains  the  still  charming  and 
excellent  mother  of  our  fair  Wanderer.  Were  you  to 
go  there  and  ask  for  Mrs.  Walton,  the  servant  would 
stare  at  you,  and  say  no  such  person  lived  there.  If, 
however,  you  should  pass  that  way,  and  inquire  for 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  John  H.  Woodville,  you  would  at  once 
be  ushered  into  the  presence  of  as  happy  a  couple  as 
you  ever  met.  The  adopted  father  of  Marcia  is  not 
the  lonely,  desolate  old  man  we  knew  at  the  com 
mencement  of  our  story.  He  had  little  difficulty  in 
winning  the  heart  of  the  mother,  after  all  his  devotion 
to  the  child,  and  here,  in  the  performance  of  his  duties 
as  a  man  and  a  Christian,  his  life  draws  peacefully  to 
a  close.  Two  children  may  be  seen  daily,  playing  in 
the  groves,  gathering  flowers,  and  laughing  with  the 
glad  mirth  of  childhood.  One  of  them  is  our  fair 
little  Benny;  still  fair  and  delicate,  with  the  same 


308  WAY-MARKS   IN   THE 

sunny  curls  his  sister  so  loved  to  twine  around  her 
wax-like  fingers.  The  other  is  a  sweet  little  girl  of 
two  or  three  summers,  the  child  of  Mr.  Woodville's  old 
age.  Need  we  tell  you  how  he  loves  it  ?  How  he 
has  named  it  after  her  sainted  sister,  Marcia  ?  How, 
at  the  hour  of  twilight,  he  points  to  her  home  beyond 
the  stars,  and  tells  the  little  innocent,  sweet  tales  of 
the  days  when  first  he  met  her,  with  the  halo  of  inno 
cence  and  beauty  on  her  brow?  How  he  saw  the 
roses  fade  ? — how  her  eyes  closed  on  earth,  and  open 
ed  on  the  far  side  of  that  ocean  that  rolls  between  us, 
and  the  Life  Eternal  ? 

In  the  love  of  an  affectionate  and  devoted  husband, 
blessed  with  the  smiles  and  happiness  of  her  children, 
removed  far  above  the  cares  of  poverty,  and  surround 
ed  by  the  countless  luxuries  and  blessings  of  wealth, 
Mrs.  Walton  forgets  the  sorrows  of  her  past  life. 
She  treasures  the  memory  of  her  lost  child  as  a  link 
that  binds  her  to  that  Blessed  land  God  has  promised 
to  his  faithful  children. 

A  mammoth  steam  ship  leaves  her  dock  amid  the 
cheers  and  blessings  of  those  standing  on  the  shore. 
She  bears  with  her  vast  numbers  of  the  great  and 
good  of  our  land,  and  there  are  among  her  passengers 
some  friends  of  our  own.  A  tall,  handsome  young 
man  waves  his  last  adieux  to  his  friends  on  shore.  A 
fair  young  creature,  all  smiles  and  beauty,  leans  upon 
his  arm.  She  takes  a  long  last  look  of  the  towering 
spires,  the  rows  of  warehouses  and  numerous  dwellings 


,  * 

LIFE   OF   A   WANDERER.  309 

of  her  own  native  New  Orleans.  She  is  leaving  it, 
perhaps  forever,  and  yet  she  does  not  weep.  She  has 
bidden  farewell  to  father,  mother  and  brother,  and  now 
she  has  gone  forth  on  the  ocean  of  life,  with  one 
strong  arm  to  guide  her;  with  one  loving  heart  to 
shield  her.  She  fears  not  for  the  future,  but  with  all 
the  gay,  glad  spirits  of  her  young  heart,  Kate  Kennet 
becomes  Mrs.  Woodville,  and  leaving  all  other  friends, 
clings  to  him  alone,  in  all  the  fondness  of  her  loving 
heart,  who  first  awoke  within  her  the  budding  germs  of 
love. 

Harry  Percy !  Lonely  and  desolate,  widowed  until 
death,  thou  alone  preservest,  in  all  its  greenness  and 
unfading  beauty,  the  memory  of  thy  lost  love.  They 
call  thee  hard  and  cold.  They  do  not  know  thy  heart 
that  speak  of  thee  thus. 

In  the  paths  of  ambition,  Harry  Percy  sought 
oblivion  of  the  sorrows  that  filled  his  heart.  He  cared 
not  for  fame,  but  it  crowned  him  with  honors;  he 
esteemed  not  wealth,  but  it  flowed  into  his  coflers.  He 
became  a  politician,  and  the  great  and  good  and  wise 
men  of  our  day  crowd  around  him,  and  listen  to  his 
words  as  to  those  of  an  oracle.  He  has  not  an  enemy 
on  earth.  He  is  kind  to  every  human  being  that 
crosses  his  path,  and  the  happiness  of  his  life  is  to 
make  others  happy.  It  is  in  vain  that  the  young  and 
beautiful  flit  around  him,  displaying  their  charms  in 
the  mazy  revolutions  of  the  dance,  or  in  the  sweet 
melody  of  song.  In  vain  they  seek  to  ensnare  his 
27 


310      WAY-MARKS  IN  THE  LIFE  OF  A  WANDERER. 

heart  or  win  his  love.  He  smiles  on  them  it  is  true, 
but  it  is  the  sickly  smile  of  departed  hope.  His  heart 
is  in  the  grave  "with  his  lost  idol.  His  love  is  no 
longer  earthly.  It  pines  for  the  Spirit  Land. 

He  leaves  the  gay  haunts  of  men,  the  wine  cup 
wreathed  in  flowers,  the  festive  hall,  the  smiles  of 
beauty,  the  allurements  of  wit,  and  men  say,  he  has 
some  secret  divinity  he  worships.  He  goes  to  the 
grave  where  sleeps  the  sweet  vision  of  innocence  that 
he  loved  so  tenderly,  and  communes  with  the  spirit 
of  her  that  he  believes  lingers  around  him.  He  often 
watches  the  stars  that  look  down  calmly,  as  he  lies 
beside  her  grave,  and  he  believes  he  sees,  in  their 
softened  radiance,  the  gentle  eyes  of  his  lost  love, 
shedding  upon  him  the  mild  and  chastened  glory  of 
heaven. 


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